


Issues

by everandanon



Series: Issues [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bets, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Castiel Acts Like Endverse Castiel (Supernatural), Childhood Friends, Fake Relationship, Flashbacks, Happy Ending, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Minor Castiel/Other(s), Minor Dean Winchester/Other(s), Misunderstandings, Pansexual Castiel, Past Child Abuse, Past Child Neglect, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Sharing a Bed, couples therapy, past overdose, references to alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:21:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 63,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22107757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everandanon/pseuds/everandanon
Summary: Best friends since childhood, Dean and Cas have been on shaky ground for years now. When an argument somehow leads to a bet about who’s better at relationships - one that calls for six months of living together as fake boyfriends and going to couples therapy every week - Cas may get more than he bargained for . . .
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Issues [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1591348
Comments: 150
Kudos: 276
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Issues, by Julia Michaels.
> 
> This story was originally written in 2017 from Dean's POV, and I was so unhappy with how it turned out it nagged at me for a year before I went back and rewrote it from Cas's. I apologize if there are any gaps in the story due to the rewrite.
> 
> **A note about the Series marker:** While there is technically a sequel, this story was written as a standalone and it has a happy ending.
> 
> **Important Disclaimer** : I am not a therapist, I have never been in therapy, and I have never so much as taken a psychology course. Thus, this is not in any way an accurate portrayal of any kind of therapy or of therapists. I apologize if it bothers anyone. Also, in real life, a therapist participating in something like this would probably not be considered ethical, and you may assume Pamela is doing so out of a sincere desire to help two people who are genuinely struggling in a relationship.
> 
> **Minor/Background Relationships** : Bobby/Ellen, Sam/OFC, Meg/Tracy, Anna/Bela
> 
> Additional details on some of the tags in the end notes. This story has not been beta'd, all mistakes are mine. Please do not repost.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: referenced past Cas/Meg, discussions of loss of virginity, past well-meaning but inappropriate pressure to lose said virginity (I have no idea how to tag for that, sorry, details in the end notes), bullying/light violence between children (details in the end notes)
> 
> A quick note: Dean, Cas, and Charlie talk about 'settling down,' citing their age (they're only 27). While they may be feeling some increased pressure/awareness, they shouldn't be; this is not meant to promote any harmful ideas about what people should do or when they should do it.

It’s two in the afternoon on a Monday, and Cas is sitting in his car outside his new apartment building, smoking a joint like his life depends on it.

It doesn’t, but his sanity might.

The bottle opener fight was stupid, and definitely his fault, but Cas has been effectively freaking out about all of this ever since he was insane enough to agree to it, and nerves just — got to him. He’d stood there, mechanically unpacking boxes, watching Dean’s hands all over his stuff as he filled their kitchen cupboards, the scene like something straight out of one of his disturbingly innocent teenage fantasies, and he’d just—

He’s not really sure. Perhaps he wanted the reminder.

Unfortunately, that means they aren’t even three hours into their first day of cohabitation, and he’s already fucked up. Not to mention Dean is angry at him.

And certainly, Dean seems angry at him more often than he doesn’t, these days, but Cas has never learned not to hate it — even when some perverse part of him is _trying_ to provoke Dean.

But then, he accepted, a long time ago, that his thing with Dean does not and never will make sense.

_Just bat your eyes at whatever sucker’s closest, and bam, drink fetched, paid for, and delivered._

He’d known, when he’d remarked on the quantity of bottle openers Dean owned, that it would start a fight. He’d known, but the room was full of tension, and only when they were combining their individual belongings into one shared space did it really hit home that, for the next six months, they would be together.

Cas couldn’t handle it.

Still — Dean’s words stung, as they often do. They shouldn’t — he knows how Dean feels about the parties, about the drugs and the alcohol and the sex (despite the fact that Dean could give him a run for his money on those last two things), and it’s not about to stop him — but it still hurts to see the judgment in his eyes, hear the contempt in the words. It wasn’t about retaliating; it was, as it always is, a personal dig at all that Cas has become.

Because there’s a part of Dean — a part probably only suppressed by Dean’s peculiar sense of attachment and loyalty, triggered by their lengthy personal history — that doesn’t like Cas. That may even _hate_ Cas. And for years now, Cas has just been waiting for the day it finally snuffs out everything else, and Dean walks away for good.

That day might have just moved up.

_Why on earth did I agree to this_? he asks himself, but it’s a pointless question. Even now, anxious and angry and not catching nearly enough of a buzz to compensate for any of it, Cas knows exactly why he agreed to this.

It’s not about pride, or victory, or proving a point to himself or anyone else. It’s not about this stupid bet at all.

In the end, as always, it all comes down to Dean.

Cas goes back upstairs after about twenty minutes, still not high enough, and offers what he thinks is a very convincingly stoned ‘hello.’ Dean says nothing.

He still gets the last word, though, because as terrifying as it is to imagine what the next six months might bring, the fact remains that Cas just walked through the door of the place that is now his home, and Dean was right there waiting. Angry, sullen, probably regretting his decisions — but there.

Cas hates how much that means.

It was all Dean’s fault.

Cas had been having a good night. He and Dean hadn’t really fought, friends being a reasonably effective buffer, and they’d enjoyed an evening drinking and playing games until gradually, everyone else headed home, leaving just them and Charlie.

Cas had been half-reclined on the sofa, fighting the urge to nap and listening to Dean and Charlie’s occasional conversation, when Dean sighed and came out with what was almost certainly a product of senseless, drunken whimsy.

“Maybe I should settle down.”

Cas didn’t move, every ounce of energy he had suddenly devoted to wracking his brain for what he couldn’t possibly have missed.

Charlie seemed to read his mind.

“Seriously? Who’s the girl? Or is it a dude this time?”

Cas held his breath. No, he and Dean didn’t live in each other’s pockets the way they used to, but if Dean had met someone — a _significant_ someone — surely Cas would have heard about it.

“There’s no girl. Or dude.” Cas let out the breath, very carefully, lest it sound like a sigh of relief. “I just — maybe I should, you know, find one. Try the . . . apple-pie thing.”

Intellectually, Cas had always known this day would come. And though there was no _someone_ that day, there would be eventually. It’s what people do, and despite the restlessness ever-present beneath Dean’s skin, stability was what he was used to now, and what he would seek out.

It might not ultimately _last,_ but Cas knew he’d _try_ it.

After all, they were twenty-seven. Maybe this was not a drunken whim; maybe this was a thought that had been trailing after Dean for some time now, persistent and persuasive in the way general expectation tends to be.

_Maybe,_ if this was something that would be happening sooner, rather than later, Cas should be thinking about it, too.

It’s not that Cas had been waiting for Dean, or anything; he’d learned his lesson on _that_ front years ago. But he did think he allowed himself to be too _distracted_ by Dean; sometimes, he thought of home, the kind he never quite had, the kind he played guest to at Harvelle-Singer holidays when they were young, and he wondered if maybe that was something he should try; if it was something he could even have. And fine, it was difficult to picture a home that didn’t start and end with Dean, but it could still be something new, something good. And _that—_

Cas thought he might want that.

Charlie shrugged.

“Well, I can’t say I haven’t considered it. We're getting to that age.”

He nodded.

“That’s true. Maybe we should be thinking about it.”

Dean stared at him, then, and Cas stared back, tilting his head. One would he think he’d appreciate Cas agreeing with him, but Dean wasn’t really in the habit of appreciating _anything_ Cas did. Not these days, anyway.

“ _You_ ? You think — _you_ should settle down?”

Cas blinked.

“That’s what I said?”

And then — Dean _laughed._

“Seriously? What would that even look like, man? ‘Cas, could you pick up the kids from practice tonight?’” Dean’s voice lowered several octaves, in what Cas presumed was an attempt at mimicry. “’Sorry, honey, I would, but you know I always have an orgy on Tuesdays.’”

There was no mistaking the implication there, and Cas sat up, outraged. Perhaps his stake in this conversation was also drunken caprice, but yet again, Dean was jumping at any opportunity to give Cas shit about his lifestyle.

And not for the first time, he’d gone too far.

“Excuse me? You think — what, I can’t be monogamous?”

“Uh, yeah, because you can’t? You never have been. Dude, even if you could, you’d hate it. Face it, buddy, you’re not cut out for relationships.”

It’s impossible not to laugh; the fact that it will piss Dean off is just an added bonus.

“That’s rich, coming from _you._ ”

“Huh?” Dean’s forehead creased. “Um, maybe you missed it ‘cause you were in a drug haze or whatever, but I’ve actually had several relationships, and I definitely never cheated.”

Trust Dean to think _that_ was what was important in a relationship. Cas might never have been in one, but he often though he understood the point of them far better than Dean ever had.

“Right. What you do instead is way less honest.”

“The _fuck_?”

Cas shook his head, torn between amused satisfaction and sudden tiredness. This was almost certainly the turning point, when one of their meaningless squabbles escalated into a full-blown fight.

He kept going, anyway.

“No, when things get too serious, you just pull back and create an excuse for one of you to end things.”

And Cas wasn’t even pulling any of it out of his ass, not like Dean was. He’d seen it happen every single time, seen Dean speed toward love and permanence and fucking swerve right before the collision.

“I don’t—”

“If I _did_ do relationships, Dean, I would do them a hell of a lot better than you.”

And he believed that. Cas saw things through, once he committed to them. He wouldn’t always say it was a good thing, but it was who he was and how he’d always been.

It was the same reason why he couldn’t seem to keep his mouth shut, at that particular moment.

“Sure, sure, Cas — except for where you can’t actually keep it in your pants.”

Cas rolled his eyes.

“You act like you’ve never heard of an open relationship before.”

“Aha! So you admit you can’t!”

“No, that’s not what I said—”

“Because now that you mention it, you can’t do the _rest_ of a relationship, either! You’re like a — a fucking cat, Cas; you know _real_ humans need affection and shit, right?”

Something seemed to brick up inside him, at that. Cas was aware of his inadequacies; aware that people — people like _Dean —_ needed things he wasn’t always good at giving.

Not that Cas tried anymore.

He let out a short laugh, nodding to himself, because he knew exactly what to say next. Dean was not the only one armed in this conversation. They’d known each other too long for that.

“Mm. Mhm. And _you_ know, real humans would still rather snuggle a cat than a flesh and blood wall of insecurity and daddy issues.”

Dean was on his feet in an instant. _Predictable._

“You shut your mouth—”

“ _Guys!”_ Cas’s head snapped around, meeting Charlie’s narrow stare. “Seriously!”

“I’m just saying,” Dean grumbled. “I’d be ten times better at—”

“Until you ruin it on purpose. I, on the other hand, see things through once I commit to them.”

“Yeah, Cas? _Prove it._ ”

Cas pulled back, startled. How on earth—

“I’m not going to lead some random stranger on just to—”

“Knew it. Coward.”

“Then _you_ prove it, Dean.”

“Sure, when I meet someone.”

Yes, of course. When Cas was a decent human being, he was a coward, but when _Dean_ was, it was just _reasonable._

“Right. _Coward._ ”

“Hey, you said yourself, I can’t just—”

“Date each other.”

Silence fell.

It took him a long moment to parse her words. He didn’t dare look at her; if he did, his betrayal might show on his face, and then everyone present might just ask themselves ‘why’ and then Cas would be fucked.

Although, the way things were shaping up . . .

“Uh,” Dean noised, staring at her. She hitched her chin.

“Date each other. Your point’s not about love or whatever, it’s about commitment. So, like — prove you can be devoted partners. Don’t sleep with anyone, cohabit peacefully, go on regular dates, be involved in each other’s crap — you know. Make each other happy. Or at least prove you can not upset each other. Actually, I know a couples therapist—” At that point, Charlie seemed disturbingly enthused by this plan. “—and you can go see her once a week to check in, have her evaluate you both, and after . . . say, six months? We’ll see who wins.”

Finally, Cas looked at her, reading a puzzling satisfaction in her air.

Dean spoke first.

“Uh. But, Charlie, that means we won’t be having sex at all. For six months. That’s not _monogamy,_ that’s — shit, that’s celibacy.”

Which — _really_?

“ _That’s_ what got you? Now who can’t keep it in their pants?”

“Hey, I didn’t say I couldn’t, I was just pointing ou—”

“Well, you can have sex with each other!” Charlie suggested, far too gleeful, and Cas’s chest went cold.

There was utter silence from Dean; the longer it went on, the more shame curdled like bad milk in his stomach.

“Like _that’s_ going to happen,” he said quickly, hoping Dean would nod along and drop it (without subjecting them to any scathing monologues about how unendurably repulsive he found _that_ prospect).

But Dean didn’t echo his agreement. Instead, he squared his shoulders, looked Cas dead in the eye, and then damned them both.

“Okay, you know what?” he said. “Let’s do this.”

Thus, after a cycle of denial, panic, resentment, dread, and finally, resignation (with an insidious backdrop of _longing_ throughout), Cas showed up today with a truck full of his things, ready to fill the apartment he and Dean had leased for the next six months.

All because Dean couldn’t fucking handle what he had no problems dishing out.

And fine, Cas could have (and should have) said _no, absolutely not, under no circumstances —_ but he was angry and strangely hurt and — and Dean was offering him _six months,_ like it was nothing to him. And it probably was, because Dean couldn’t possibly know, but still, he _was_ , and Cas couldn’t bring himself to refuse.

Even though this could be the end of — well, everything.

(Perhaps he’s trained himself to favor instant gratification too much.)

He leaves Dean the kitchen, deciding to start moving boxes marked for storage into the spare room, and that’s when he sees it.

There, centered at the wall, is the bed frame, Dean’s precious memory-foam mattress nestled bare inside it, all just waiting for Cas’s ludicrously soft bedding to be liberated from a box.

He swallows hard, and suddenly, he can’t even feel the weed. The mattress is a soft ivory, inviting even in its undressed state, and when he thinks about sharing it with Dean, it seems impossibly small.

He forces himself to turn around and start hauling boxes.

Around nine o’ clock, Cas is organizing the bookcase, when Dean finally heads for the bedroom.

“I’m gonna put the sheets and stuff on. We should crash soon.”

Cas almost offers to help, but bites his tongue. He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t want to make things easy for Dean, but really, he doesn’t think he can handle wrestling the sheets on, the two of them leaning over the bed as they smooth out the wrinkles, knowing they’ll be lying down next to each other in a couple hours time. Dean would be oblivious, as he always is, and Cas would get so worked up he probably wouldn’t be able to sleep at all.

He hides in the shadow of the bookcase, carefully arranging them by author, and listens to the rustle of bedding as it echoes down the hall.

“I’m gonna crash,” Dean announces, about forty five minutes later. “You should get some sleep.”

“Soon,” Cas murmurs, but he hovers in the living area, rearranging miscellaneous décor until his lids begin to droop and he’s just tired enough to finally accept that realistically, he can’t _not sleep_ for the next six months.

Still, he takes his time in the bathroom, brushing and flossing and gargling his mouthwash with a thoroughness well beyond his usual standards, and after donning a t-shirt and long pajama bottoms, he quietly slips into the bedroom.

Dean is curled up at the edge of the bed, facing the outside, and he doesn’t stir when Cas gingerly lifts the blanket and slides in. He feels miles away but not far enough, and all Cas can think of are the countless sleepovers of their youth, of marveling at how warm and safe Dean’s bed at Bobby’s always felt. Cas slept on the floor the first few times, but then the weather grew cold and Dean complained that Cas had his extra blanket, and just as Cas was about to tearfully offer not to sleep over anymore, Dean declared that he would just have to sleep in the bed.

Cas didn’t mind. He didn’t mind that Dean always gave him the wall side, his claim that ‘it’s safer there’ cryptic to Cas’s limited understanding, and he didn’t mind that Dean always liked to be touching in some way, something small but there; toes brushing, a pinky hooked around one of Cas’s fingers, or even that night in November, every year, when Dean would need to actually be held.

There’s none of that now, though; Dean snores softly, distant and unaware, and Cas — Cas minds.

When he wakes in the morning, Dean is long gone, the bed cold beside him. There’s still a layer of dread, like a fine dust on his skin, itching at his soul, but somehow, Cas feels better-rested than he has in years.

Cas hates therapy.

Pamela is a lovely woman, and probably someone whose company Cas would enjoy immensely under any other circumstances, but she asks too many questions, and Dean gives them shitty answers, and at twenty-seven-years-old, Cas still has trouble finding his words.

“Now, you told me at our introductory meeting last week that you two consider yourself best friends?”

Dean had told her that. Cas had gone quiet, unable to, because he doesn’t usually think of their relationship in fixed terms — tries not to think too hard about it, at all — but once asked, he had no idea how to answer, especially with Dean sitting right next to him.

It was a relief.

“I see,” she says, when Dean nods to confirm.

“Would you say your relationship has always been this contentious?”

_No._ Cas holds his tongue, holds the word back until he can strip it of its bitterness. He’s not stupid. Therapy is designed to get people to talk, and he has no intention of revealing things he’s spent years painstakingly keeping secret.

It’s a struggle, though. Sometimes he wants to tell someone how wrong things went, explain to them just how much things have changed since then, like it will somehow help Cas be more okay with it.

“Uh, pretty much.”

_Pretty much._

Cas wonders if Dean’s just uncomfortable, or if he’s somehow forgotten the years and years they spent, thick as thieves, so easy in one another’s company Dean’s Aunt Ellen would look wary when she spied only one of them, would ask, _Where’s your other half, boy?_

“And you, Castiel? Would you agree?”

“No.” He doesn’t care how he sounds, anymore. He looks at Pamela, so he doesn’t have to face Dean’s frown, and spitefully thinks it serves Dean right to be caught out in a lie.

It was a shitty lie, anyway.

“Alright, well, there’s a place to start. Does one of you want to elaborate?”

If Cas starts _elaborating,_ they’ll be here all night — or however long it takes for Dean to admit Cas is right.

(So maybe _more_ than all night.)

“Uh. Aren’t we here to talk about . . . now?”

“That’s true, Dean, but ‘now’ you’re having problems that are related to ‘then,’ so if you want to get back on track in the present, you need to figure out what derailed you in the first place.”

Dean lets out this big, childish, long-suffering sigh, like he would when Ellen told him he had to wait until after dinner for pie.

Of course, Ellen often snuck him a tiny piece, anyway, so maybe he thinks it’ll get him somewhere.

“Okay, fine. _Cas_ , what derailed us?”

The anger burns so hot it whites out, and Cas slumps in the ensuing nothingness, staring at the floor.

“I couldn’t say.”

“Maybe we can figure it out,” Pamela suggests kindly. “Obviously, if you feel you have some insight into the _why,_ that’s helpful, but I asked _when_ you felt like things changed.”

Cas shrugs, reluctant.

“Sometime in high school, maybe.” Definitely in high school. Cas can narrow it down to a pivotal moment at a birthday party toward the end of senior year, a deeply painful moment Dean probably barely even remembers but dictated the course of Cas’s personal growth from there on out.

Much like this bet, it was all Dean’s fault.

It was the end of senior year, and Dean had somehow talked him into going to a party.

Cas, as always, didn’t really want to, but high school was ending and though he knew he would be rooming with Dean in the fall, there was no guarantee how often he’d see any of their other friends. People said things changed, in college.

Besides, Dean had been trying to get him to tag along for years, and clearly, he thought this was a ‘last chance’ of sorts, a new hint of desperation to his wheedling.

And Cas — well, Cas was very careful not to _always_ give in to Dean, despite the temptation, but in reality, he’d lost track of the times he’d caved to pleading green eyes and mystifyingly potent charm.

It was Charlie’s birthday, anyway, and she was Cas’s best friend after Dean and Sam. With only a month left before graduation, Cas decided it couldn’t hurt. He’d go, and he’d hate it, and hopefully it would be a while before Dean asked again.

Of course, things were never that simple, where Dean was concerned.

One minute, Cas was freshly arrived and prepared to put in exactly one hour before crying off, and the next, he’d had four shots of varying liquors and was being enlisted to play a game of spin-the-bottle.

Fast on his way to being drunk and utterly _petrified,_ Cas blurted out the truth of his experience (he had none) to his shocked friend. How it was a _surprise_ to Dean, Cas will never know.

In the end, though, he couldn’t go through with it. Dean was warm at his side, one arm slung around Cas’s shoulders, and Cas didn’t recognize half the people sitting in the circle. Even among the ones he did recognize, there was no one he wanted to kiss.

No one except _Dean,_ of course. Even if the bottle landed on him, Dean would probably make Cas respin, and even if he didn’t — he wasn’t sure he wanted his first and possibly only kiss with Dean to be part of a meaningless party game.

He fled the room when it was his turn.

Dean followed him out, curious and strangely upset.

“I don’t — Dean, I don’t want to kiss some random person for a game,” Cas tried to explain, his fuzzy brain careful as it composed the words so they wouldn’t come out as _Dean, I want to kiss you,_ instead.

Cas had spent years not saying so, by then, and he wasn’t about to ruin it like that.

Inexplicably, Dean told him to wait there and went off somewhere while Cas quietly regretted not staying at home; by the time Dean came back, he was ready to insist on leaving.

“Tonight’s the night, buddy,” Dean announced, neatly derailing him.

“The night of what?”

“The night you lose your V-card.”

Cas didn’t always understand slang. He was pretty sure that was a euphemism for virginity, but he’d _just_ told Dean he’d never kissed someone, so why on earth would Dean think—

“I don’t understand,” he said, and Dean let out a sigh.

“I’ve got you, Cas. Guest bedroom upstairs. Time to become a man.”

It took Cas a second to understand, but when he did — his blood seemed to evaporate in his veins, even as his heart started pumping with a vengeance.

_I’ve got you, Cas._

Dean wasn’t seriously suggesting — he couldn’t mean that — just because Cas didn’t want to kiss a stranger didn’t mean he was ready to do more with someone he knew.

Unless Dean _knew_ , somehow, had read _want_ in his eyes and his face when they talked earlier, and this was his answer.

Dean — could it be that _Dean_ wanted him, too?

He was suddenly acutely aware of Dean’s palm, a hot weight on his shoulder blade. He craned his neck to look at it, at the solid proof of Dean’s intent.

_I’ve got you, Cas._

Cas took a breath, holding back a shudder, and tried to think rationally.

“You — you want — n-now? I—I didn’t think you even — Dean, why?”

Dean frowned slightly.

“Come on, man. You’re my best friend, s’my job to look out for you. And tonight that means making sure you leave this house blissfully deflowered, capisce?”

Cas’s heart sank a little.

“Oh.” He swallowed, and tried not to be ungrateful. To the best of his knowledge, Dean wasn’t interested in boys. In light of that, it was an extremely generous offer, to have sex with Cas just so he could have the experience. “You — just — because we’re friends.”

Still, disappointment and hurt licked at the edges of his thoughts, and even though he didn’t want to offend Dean — even though the idea of having Dean’s hands on him, in such different ways than he was used to, held tantalizing appeal — Cas knew he should probably say no.

“I . . . I don’t know, Dean. I’m not sure if this is a good idea.”

“What? Why not?” Dean was quiet for a moment, and then abruptly, dissolved into laughter. “Shit, sorry, man. It’s Meg. I already talked to her and everything, she’s down.”

Cas furrowed his brow, bemused.

“I — what’s Meg?”

“Upstairs! Waiting for _you_ , stud.”

Cas’s face, his whole _body,_ froze.

Oh, God. He was — he was an _idiot._ Of course it was Meg. As if Dean would ever even _think_ of sleeping with Cas, let alone offer to _do it._

No, Dean didn’t want him. Wanting Cas was so far from his mind that he was more than happy to hook Cas up with someone else, more than happy to just stand aside and let it happen.

And why wouldn’t he? They were best friends. They were not, and never would be, anything more.

Dean misinterpreted his silence, thankfully. Cas wasn’t sure he could have handled it, if Dean had figured out what Cas stupidly thought might be happening here.

“Dude, don’t worry. It’ll be awesome. Meg’s like — you know, you hear people talk, she knows what she’s doing.” Dean paused, then winced. “Shit, not that — I don’t mean she’s a slut, ‘cause she’s not, she’s cool, I mean, you know that, you like Meg. And like, she’s smart, so you’re not gonna — I don’t know, catch anything, I don’t think she’d — look, I just mean — she’s good at this, you’re going to have a great time.”

Cas stared at him, sobered by humiliation and exhausted by defeat, and tried to figure out how to open his mouth and answer without bursting into tears.

Dean either didn’t notice, or didn’t think it was a problem. He pulled something out of his back pocket — oh, yes, a condom, for Cas to wear while having sex with someone who wasn’t Dean, because _Dean didn’t care —_ and handed it to Cas.

When Cas failed to grasp it, Dean cupped his fingers, pressing until they curled around it.

“Look, take this, make sure you use it, tell her how pretty she is a lot, and just relax, ‘kay?” He wrapped a hand around Cas’s wrist, hooked his other beneath Cas’s arm, and pulled him to his feet. It was a miracle Cas didn’t fall over. “Go get ‘er, tiger.”

Cas didn’t go, though. He stared at Dean, for who knows how long, trying to understand how they had arrived at this situation in the first place.

Trying to understand why he’d ever thought things could just continue on as they were, indefinitely, without ever coming back to bite him.

Eventually, he turned and went up the stairs.

Meg had never been a close friend, but Cas had always liked her much better than most people, and that night more than ever, he understood why. He’d meant to tell her sorry, but he wasn’t ready to do that, and then walk home to try and sleep off the horrible ache in his head and his chest, but he never got the chance.

“Why the long face, Clarence?” she drawled, but her eyes were concerned and her hand was warm on his shoulder, and Dean was waiting downstairs, nothing but _happy_ that Cas was up here with someone else.

He started to cry.

He cried, and Meg held him, petting his hair and telling him everything was going to be okay, and when his tears finally stopped choking him, he told her exactly why she was wrong.

And after that — well, after that, Cas resolved to change.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Now that Cas mentions it, do you feel like anything changed in high school?”

Dean’s quiet a moment, but when he does answer, there’s a familiar bite to his tone.

“Come to think of it, yeah. _Cas_ did.”

He’s right, of course.

So Cas says nothing.

Regardless of Pamela’s advice, which can basically be summarized as ‘stop having stupid, childish fights over nothing because neither of you can handle your baggage,’ Cas doesn’t have high expectations for Week Two.

They’d spent the first week engaged in a never-ending string of petty squabbles, most of which arose from difficulties adjusting to suddenly having to share their living space, and Pamela had laid the blame at both their doors. _The bickering seems to be the root of it,_ she’d said, but acknowledged that that was an issue going much deeper than they could reasonably expect to handle in a few short sessions, so her recommendation was pretty much to try and refrain.

And Cas knows she’s right — just like he knows he doesn’t have to jump down Dean’s throat just because the dirty sock next to the sofa stays there for more than an hour — but it’s substantially easier in theory than practice.

This time, though — this time he’s entitled, because not only does Dean have the nerve to walk through the front door and immediately start _stripping,_ he thinks the fucking floor is his hamper.

“Dean. _Hamper._ ” Cas stares down at the table, resolutely not looking. Living with Dean makes him feel like a seventeen-year-old, except Cas was an ignorant and thus unimaginative seventeen-year-old and it was rarely a problem. No, at twenty-seven and with years of extremely varied experience under his belt, Cas knows all kinds of wonderful things he and Dean could be doing to each other, if the inclination were there, and that knowledge is absolutely reflected in his fantasies. His very persistent, very _inconvenient_ fantasies.

He supposes he should just be grateful their opposing schedules mean Dean’s always awake hours before Cas, so there have yet to be any awkward morning situations to deal with.

“They’re not dirty, Cas,” Dean insists, shaking Cas from the dangerous thought of how, in a hypothetical world where Dean was attracted to him (the world where all his fantasies take place), the morning situation wouldn’t _have_ to be awkward . . .

Cas lets out a harsh breath. This is ridiculous. Dean is standing _right there,_ and the table can’t hide _that_ much.

He turns to look at Dean in an effort to distract himself — only to promptly realize his mistake.

_Skin,_ he thinks dumbly, blinking.

“Then put them in the bedroom.”

“I gotta put ‘em back on after my shower.” Of course, he just _had_ to bring up the fucking shower — “Why transport them all over the place? Lighten up, buddy, they’re gonna be there for like, thirty minutes.”

_Thirty minutes._ Cas tries not to think of Dean’s hands pushing through wet hair, water pouring down his chest and back and legs and—

“Then take them into the bathroom with you!” Cas snaps, viciously shoving aside his thoughts, and turns back to his work, which he is going to do, because he’s a goddamn adult and he knows what self-control is.

Dean doesn’t leave, though. He stands there, perfect and golden in Cas’s peripheral, and then sighs.

“Okay. Sorry, man. I didn’t realize it would be such a big deal.” Like _Cas_ is being such a drama queen — “It’s your space, too. I’ll try to do better.”

And that sounds . . . suspiciously sincere.

He risks a glance sideways, just to be sure. Dean’s face is open, vaguely apologetic, and though he’s still naked but for his boxer-briefs, Cas relents. It’s unfair to punish Dean just because _he_ can’t keep his libido in check.

“See you in a bit,” Dean adds, and hurries off to the bathroom.

He comes back about half an hour later, when unyielding thoughts of him and showers have almost totally hindered Cas’s work and driven him to the kitchen in hopes that brewing a cup of coffee will provide some kind of reset.

“Little late for coffee, buddy,” Dean says, amused, and Cas instinctively bristles. Without thinking, he turns, preparing himself for another argument.

They don’t get that far; Dean gives him a cautious smile, and Cas doesn’t bother trying to interpret it, because once again, Dean is half-naked — except this time, he’s _wet._

There is a fucking _towel_ across his shoulders; why the hell didn’t he _use_ it? If Cas didn’t know any better, he’d think Dean was doing these things deliberately to fuck with him.

After a moment’s pause, Dean sidesteps him to pull a glass out of the cupboard.

“I slept late,” Cas finally manages, and Dean nods.

“Catchin’ up on work? Guess that means you don’t want me out here distracting you with Netflix, then.”

_Netflix isn’t how you’ll distract me,_ Cas almost says, but Dean will blink big doe eyes and go ‘what’ and then Cas will have to explain that Dean pretty much just has to stand there _breathing_ and suddenly all Cas wants to do is jump his bones.

And then Dean will screw up his face like he does when they’re out at a restaurant and there’s something unknown and sticky on the table, and then he’ll move out and never talk to Cas again.

He glares at Dean’s back. It’s fucking unfair, is what it is.

“It’s fine. I can do—” he begins, but then Dean’s turning, tipping the glass back to drink and offering a perfect view of the long line of his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

Cas spins, pawing at the coffee pot with eyes unseeing. “Both. I can — do both. It’s nice to see you using a glass instead of the carton.”

In fact, it’s _very_ nice to see. This is probably what hell is like.

He hears the hollow tap of the glass being set down.

“Please. I’ve seen you do it.”

“Yes, Dean, when I’m the sole owner of the milk carton.”

There’s a brief silence, and then, to his surprise:

“That’s fair. What do you wanna watch?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Cas watches him head for the sofa.

“Um.” He hopes Dean will put a shirt on at some point. But then, maybe it’s one of those things Cas will just get used to after prolonged exposure? There’s a thought. “Whatever is fine. I’ll only be half-paying attention.”

“Cool.”

Predictably, Cas hears the opening theme of _Dr. Sexy._

Still, he arranges his stuff across the coffee table and settles in, back to the sofa arm, looking forward to the evening more than he probably should.

Dean does eventually put on a shirt, and Cas — Cas pretends he’s glad.

The thing is, Cas knew he loved Dean long before it occurred to him to want anything else from him.

He remembers being fascinated by Dean from the outset. Cas didn’t really have any friends — he was _weird_ , the other kids said — but as desperate as he must have been for company, despite being too young to realize it, he thinks any new friend that wasn’t Dean would still not have had the same effect. The fact that he _became_ friends with Dean, when Dean was young and unhappy and feeling abandoned by his father, lashing out without prejudice, is a testament to that.

Anna had smuggled home a book about a girl who gets trapped in the fae world, around that time, and Cas’s curiosity had got the best of him. He’d seen her reading it, and had carefully snuck it out of her backpack one night and hidden it under his pillow to examine.

It was interesting; Cas doesn’t remember much about it — he certainly couldn’t have read all of it, needing to ferry it back to that zippered pocket before she noticed — but an unfamiliar word had stuck with him.

_Enth_ _rall_ _ed_ _._

“What does _enthralled_ mean?” Cas asked his sister, after turning the word over in his head for days, inexplicably caught on the scene in which it was used. He knew it might give him away, but he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

_She could not seem to look away from the fairy; her fears abated, bled from her body and left a dry calm. All she wished to do was gaze upon the fair creature for ever, to_ know _them, in all their beautiful mystery — to do as they bid and please them._

_She was enthralled._

Anna gave him a speculative look.

“It depends. Usually, it just means someone fascinates or interests you so much you’re totally focused on them. Or it, if it’s a something. But sometimes it means more — like in fantasy, where there’s magic, it might mean that someone has literally put somebody else under a spell where that person can’t seem to see anyone or anything else, or even does whatever they’re told.”

“Oh,” Cas says, brain working furiously. It was mostly as he expected, yet now, the strange new word held a dark, certain power.

Anna arched a brow, a smirk playing at her lips.

“Did you read the whole thing?”

Cas turned scarlet.

“No — I only peeked — I didn’t—”

Anna laughed, ruffling his hair.

“It’s okay, Cas. I shouldn’t have been reading it either.”

He bit his lip, hunching inward.

“What happened to her? In the end.”

Anna made a face.

“It was stupid. She decides to stay in the fae world with the fairy that enthralled her, even after the spell breaks.”

He swallowed.

“Was it so bad? Being enthralled?”

“Well, yeah, Cas. It means she didn’t have choices.”

“But — but even without the spell, she liked it there? Why?”

Anna sighed, frustration evident.

“ _Supposedly_ she was in love, for real. But I didn’t really buy it and it didn’t seem like a good enough reason, either way.”

Cas agreed. Cas didn’t understand love, didn’t understand why so many people seemed to treat it as an excuse for all kinds of strange things.

But to be _enthralled —_ he thought, perhaps, he understood that.

He spent the whole next day thinking about it, even as he and Dean played by the creek and dug out little river lanes for the twig boats Dean had taught him to make. It meant he didn’t have much to say, but that was just as well; he could tell Dean was having a bad day, because he kept snapping at Cas over nothing and breaking his twigs because he wouldn’t soak them long enough or he’d bend them too hard.

Dean had a lot of days like that, and even if Cas didn’t understand, he was used to it.

Besides, it left him more time to think about how ever since the first time he’d seen Dean, arms crossed and shoulders hunched, scowling down at the sidewalk in front of Mr. Singer’s house, he’d felt bizarrely drawn to him; how even though Dean was gruff and cranky and determined to be quiet at first, Cas was happy to just sit next to him, watching him draw shapes in the dirt; and how when Dean eventually smoothed out, started talking to him, started telling him jokes, Cas felt daily the kind of joy one only experienced at birthdays and Christmas.

How even when he had his doubts about Dean’s ideas for playing, he went along with it anyway, because he wanted — he wanted to _please_ Dean.

He thought it was because they were friends, and that’s just what friends did, but—

“Hey, stop staring at me. It’s weird.”

Cas blinked, startled, and turned red.

“Sorry.” He didn’t usually mind when Dean called him weird, because Dean called a lot of things weird, and besides, he never said it in a mean way, like the other kids. Right then, though, Dean was looking at him like he meant it.

Cas experienced an overreaction of anguish at this perceived rejection, and he couldn’t stop himself.

“Are you a fairy?”

Dean stared, expression slack with shock, and then his whole face turned red.

“ _What_?” he demanded. “No _way._ I’d never — my Dad says — why are you even _asking_ that?”

Cas gaped, and only then did it occur to him that Dean might be offended. Putting a spell on someone wasn’t a very nice thing to do, so even if Dean were a fairy, he probably wouldn’t like being accused of that.

“Oh — no, I didn’t mean — you’re the nicest person I’ve ever met,” Cas concluded hastily, and it was true. Dean didn’t always smile and say sweet things — in fact, he snapped at Cas an awful lot — but nobody’d ever paid so much attention to Cas, or tried so hard to make him laugh, or shared all their snacks with him, even when it was their favorite.

Cas suddenly felt like an idiot. Of course he liked Dean and wanted to spend all his time with him — wanted to make him _happy._ Dean was _nice,_ and Cas’s _friend_. That explained way more than any kind of magical spell.

Dean stood up, wiping his palms on his jeans and leaving muddy streaks behind.

“I’m not a damn _fairy,_ ” he spat, and his hands balled into fists.

“Of course you’re not—” Cas tried, but Dean fixed him with the maddest glare he’d ever seen on his face.

“Why would you even ask that, huh? You tryin’ to start a fight, Cas? ‘Cause I’ll give you a fight.”

“I don’t want to fight with you,” Cas insisted, because fighting with Dean was the _worst._ Even if Cas apologized right away, Dean always needed time before he’d stop being angry, and Cas ended up sitting at home, bored and alone and increasingly worried they weren’t going to be friends anymore.

“Then don’t ask dumb questions.” Dean kicked a clump of dirt right into the little trench they’d just spent two hours digging with spoons pilfered from Bobby’s kitchen. Cas flinched as a few bits flew at him as well, and to his dismay, Dean turned to leave.

“Wait—” he started. Cas wasn’t ready to go home and be by himself, and besides, he was a little afraid of walking back alone.

“Don’t follow me,” Dean snapped, glare furious. “This place is so stupid. I wish I’d never moved here.”

Cas sat back, too stunned to protest as Dean began to walk away.

Dean — he couldn’t possibly mean that, right? Didn’t he realize that if he hadn’t moved there, he never would have met Cas?

The thought was unbearable to Cas; Dean had fast become his favorite thing in the world, and he couldn’t imagine life without him, anymore. Sure, sometimes Dean talked about how someday, his Dad was going to come get him and they’d drive all over the country in something called an Impala again, but Cas had never even _seen_ Dean’s Dad, so this seemed unlikely enough to be of little concern.

But maybe Dean _didn’t_ care about Cas. Maybe Dean’s Dad really would come to get him, and Dean was just passing the days until then, waiting.

Maybe it didn’t matter to him, at all, if they’d never met.

Cas cried the whole walk home, scared and profoundly hurt, and he hid in his room the whole next day, feeling small and sad and convinced he would never see Dean again.

But then the sadness wore off, and Cas got _angry,_ and he decided he’d go play at the park, and make _new_ friends, _better_ friends than Dean (never mind that he’d never managed it before).

He was working up to this feat, studiously shifting piles of sand in the sandbox despite being conscious of the fact that it was for the little kids, when behind him, he heard Sam’s voice.

“Can we swing?” he asked someone, and Cas didn’t have to turn around to know who he was talking to.

Cas should have been upset, because Dean was more distracting than the jingle of ice cream trucks and soft-looking stray cats combined, which didn’t bode well for Cas’s efforts at making new friends, but when he heard Dean’s muffled response, his heart skipped with glee.

It had only been a day, but Cas was missing him _desperately._

“Hey, Winchester. Didja come to hang out with the freak?”

Cas almost turned, in his confusion, before he realized what was meant by that.

They were talking about _Cas._ Cas was the freak.

His cheeks flushed hot.

“Excuse me?” Dean said, voice eerily calm. “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

“Whaddya think it means? Is the freak’s stupid catching or somethin’? If you keep hanging out with him, you’re gonna be just as weird someday.”

There was silence, and then:

“ _Fuck off,_ ” Dean bit out. Cas’s head whipped around, shocked out of his embarrassment, just in time to see Dean throw a punch.

He stormed over to Cas, leaving his opponent whimpering and doubled over, and hauled him to his feet.

“C’mon, Cas. Let’s go give Sammy a push.”

Cas dumbly followed.

In the end, Dean got chewed out for a full hour — Cas had never _seen_ Bobby so mad — and then grounded ‘indefinitely.’

Cas hovered at Dean’s side through it all.

Punishment determined, Dean stomped up the stairs to his and Sam’s room, pulling Cas along after him, and threw himself on the bed with a huff.

“This sucks. That kid _deserved_ it,” he complained, and Cas nodded quickly, although he was so used to kids like that being rude the punch _did_ seem a bit drastic. Dean continued, voice dark. “ _Nobody_ talks about you that way.”

Cas’s heart seemed to stutter.

Dean did all that — because of _him_?

Dean sat up again, staring at him.

“You okay?”

And Cas — Cas broke into a smile, deeply warmed and impossibly happy, and selfishly hoped that Dean’s Dad never came to get him.

Because Cas knew, in that moment, that he loved Dean, and so long as he had a choice, he wanted to be with him always.

A lot has changed, since then.

But not that.

Things go south a little after Cas falls asleep.

It’s not that he does anything _that_ incriminating, like moaning Dean’s name in his sleep (although if that ever happens, Cas intends to just claim some kind of nightmare where Dean was attacking him in a fit of demonic rage and the name-moaning was really just a plea to stop); but it’s still potentially revealing.

He wakes to a dark living room, a blanket thrown across him, and shuffles to the bathroom in a groggy haze. He’s exhausted despite the coffee, and he doubts he would have woken up if not for his bladder. In light of that, he’s way too focused on his ultimate destination of ‘bed,’ to pay any attention to what he does before then.

He bangs his elbow on something when he gets to the bedroom, and a moment later, the lamp goes on. Cas is too sleepy to use words, but he tries to inject some gratitude into the grunt he directs at the bed before turning around to retrieve pajamas from the dresser.

He goes for his favorites, stripping out of his dayclothes and clumsily inserting himself into the t-shirt and bottoms, and then, finally ready for bed, he turns to climb in.

“Is that my Metallica shirt?”

Just like that, Cas is wide awake.

Fuck. _Fuck,_ what was he _thinking_?

Obviously, he wasn’t. Fuck sleep-brain.

“Uh. Is it?”

Dean is pretty much scowling.

“I think it is. I haven’t seen it since college. I thought one of your druggie friends stole it.”

He was half right. Cas had wandered through the apartment, numbly taking in all the boxes, and seen it sitting right at the top of one of them.

He didn’t think twice before snatching it, squirreling it away in the back of his drawer until Dean was gone.

“I . . . well, you left it behind, when you moved out.”

“I moved out, not _away._ Damn it, Cas, I specifically asked you about that!”

Cas remembers. And any other time, his guilt might have driven him to cooperate, but not then. Cas was too upset to feel bad then, so upset he mostly just felt like he _needed_ that shirt.

After all, Dean was gone.

“Well — I didn’t find it for a while!” He fervently prays Dean will just drop it, but no.

“And when you did, you — what? Assumed I must not want it anymore? It was my favorite!”

Cas remembers that, too. That was the whole reason he took it. He’d seen Dean in that shirt countless times, and he was pathetic enough after Dean moved out that just looking at it made him feel better. Even after several washes, it carried traces of Dean’s scent, and Cas would wrap himself up in it and hide in his room, trying to pretend that nothing beyond it had changed.

It was a stupid effort, but what can he say? He was young.

“I forgot,” he mumbles, shoulders hunched, and climbs into bed.

“My ass you forgot.”

“Dean, shut up and go to sleep. It was years ago.” And the more Cas thinks about it, the more he’s pretty sure Dean owed him that much. A stupid t-shirt, soft from wear, for Cas to cling to while he tried to process losing his best friend for vague, unexplained reasons.

Dean could spare a fucking t-shirt, favorite or not. He was the one who left Cas bereft of something far more valuable.

“My _favorite_!” Dean says again, and Cas turns on his back with a huff.

“Well, now it’s _my_ favorite.”

“ _What?_ You’re not gonna give it back?”

Cas almost laughs. If anything, he’s probably going to steal _another_ when this is all over. One that still smells a little like Dean.

(So sue him; he’s still young.)

“No. Now go to sleep.”

Dean says nothing more, but Cas plans to hide the t-shirt the next day anyway.

Cas is up earlier than usual, coping with this fact via coffee, when Dean pushes a plate of breakfast in front of him and asks what he’s got planned for the day.

Highly suspicious; it must have something to do with the t-shirt. Cas needs to stash it sooner rather than later.

“Translating work,” he answers, eyeing Dean warily.

“Okay. Anything else?”

Anything else besides his actual _job_? What exactly is Dean trying to say, here?

“I do put in full work days, Dean, not that it’s any of your business.”

Dean just looks frustrated.

“Didn’t say you didn’t, dude, jesus. I’m just bein’ polite.”

Cas has never known Dean to just be polite, not to him, but Dean is so visibly upset the next few minutes as he eats his breakfast, Cas decides to play along. Whatever he’s up to, he’s not trying to start a fight.

“A couple books I ordered are getting here today. I’ll probably start one.”

Cas gets an egg-filled grin in return.

“Nerd.”

“As if you’re a stranger to reading for _pleasure._ ” Dean has a bookcase full of sci-fi and fantasy in his room, and Cas has heard him speak with Charlie about various fan forums. Why he persists in labeling Sam and Cas this way, when he’s as guilty of ‘nerd’ behavior himself, Cas will never understand.

Dean stops chewing and shifts in his chair.

“Fun books. I bet yours are a microscopic history of the Western Mississippi River dialect or whatever.”

Cas bites back a laugh.

“That’s not a thing, Dean,” he returns dryly, but Dean seems to brighten, anyway.

They have a surprisingly pleasant conversation over the remainder of breakfast, and Cas feels a little disappointed when Dean glances at the clock and gets up.

“I’m gonna head out, Cas. There’s a turkey sandwich in the fridge. It better be gone by the time I get home.”

Cas looks back at him, uncomprehending.

“Uh. What?” Typically, roommates ask you _not_ to eat their sandwiches in their absence.

Dean starts pulling on his jacket.

“Dude, you haven’t done the shopping once since we moved in, and as the only person who cooks — which, really? You still can’t? — I’m familiar enough with inventory to know _you_ haven’t been eating during the day. Which, again, _really_? You’re not in college anymore, man.”

“I lose track of time,” Cas says under his breath, a little embarrassed and a lot — _something —_ because Dean noticed he wasn’t eating and made him a sandwich.

After he’d already cooked him breakfast.

“Well, I made it easy for you. Eat it. I’m pretty sure letting you starve to death is an automatic loss as far as who’s-the-better-boyfriend goes.”

Cas has no clever retort for that, because he knows Dean well enough to know that that has nothing to do with any of it.

Making sure Cas ate and took care of himself whenever Cas seemed to lapse was something Dean had always done, before. It’s been a while, but even so, this is just something Dean does.

Because he cares.

Cas isn’t sure what to do with that.

“Okay, then. Later, buddy.”

Dean’s just about to open the door when Cas realizes he hasn’t said anything.

“Thank you,” he hurries to call out after him. “I’ll eat it.”

“That’s my boy,” Dean teases, then rushes out the door to escape retaliation.

Not that Cas would have. Dean made him a sandwich in good faith; any accompanying teasing is just Dean’s way of handling his own awkwardness, and that — that’s the kind of teasing Cas can easily forgive.

The sandwich tastes like manna from the heavens and as much as Cas hates the work involved in cleaning a kitchen — hence why he prefers not to cook in one — he dedicatedly scrubs down the entire thing afterward, because he’s not sure how else to say ‘thank you.’

And maybe that’s a disproportionate show of thanks for a single sandwich — maybe Cas should have gone with an actual, verbal expression of gratitude — but between the two of them, words so often seem to hurt more than help, and since Dean probably won’t accept or appreciate a spectacular blowjob if Cas is the one giving it, cleaning the kitchen must suffice.

His efforts don’t go unnoticed, although Dean is initially preoccupied with giving him shit over his first date choice. Cas is tempted to fight about it — after all, Dean certainly wasn’t taking initiative as far as the dates went, nor did he have any counter-suggestions to mini-golf, and Cas actually spent a long time thinking about something they could do that _Dean_ would enjoy — but his anger gets stuck on a hot omelette and a carefully crafted turkey sandwich, and he decides to just take Dean’s ribbing at face value.

It pays off, because he makes Dean smile, and then Dean thanks him for cleaning the kitchen.

Cas tries to shrug it off, to ignore the strange glowy feeling under his skin, recognizable as the same feeling that drove him to absurd and dubious lengths as an adolescent in an effort to make Dean happy.

“I had time.”

“Thought you’d read one of your books if you had time. Not to mention you hate cleaning kitchens.”

Certainly, Cas can count on one hand the number of times he’d cleaned the kitchen when they lived together before, and he suspects Dean may remember even better than he does.

He lifts a brow.

“That was a very good sandwich. Maybe this is a ploy to encourage future production.”

“Is that right? S’long as you eat it, I don’t mind making a second lunch for you when I do mine.”

Cas tries not to react. That — today has been — Dean is being so _nice._

It feels a little like being friends again, the kind of friends they were before all of the anger and the tension and the terrible, inexplicable _distance._

Cas ducks his chin, overwhelmed.

“I’d appreciate that. Thank you, Dean.”

Dean nods shortly.

“God, I’m starved,” he says abruptly, perhaps sensing Cas’s awkwardness. He reaches for the hopelessly adorable _Dr. Sexy_ apron Charlie got him last Christmas. “Hope you like spaghetti.”

Cas just watches him, forgetting that he’s not really supposed to.

“I like everything you make, Dean,” he says quietly, unable to stop himself.

“That’s good, buddy, ‘cause that’s what you’ll be eating for the next several months. Get the radio for me?”

Cas fetches the radio, thinking about five more months of days like this, and tries not to get his hopes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** SPOILERS ***
> 
> Discussions of loss of virginity/pressure to lose virginity: A conversation in therapy results in a flashback to a party Dean and Cas attended, at which Dean tried to help Cas out by getting Meg to agree to take his virginity. Meg and Cas did not sleep together that night, but this was an incredibly upsetting experience for Cas and had a huge impact on him.
> 
> Bullying/light violence between children: In a flashback, another child on the playground makes comments about Cas being a freak and Dean becoming just as weird by hanging out with him. Dean tells them to fuck off and punches them. He gets in big trouble, of course.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: usage of the verb 'to fuck' intended to convey hypothetical Focused Sexytime Efforts on Dean's part but which some may read as suggestion of bottom!Cas, referenced Anna/Bela, past child abuse (details in the end notes), mentions of past Dean/Cassie, past Cas/other (a referenced blowjob, see end notes), anxiety over perceived homophobia (details in the end notes), references to alcoholism (details in the end notes), please let me know if I missed anything.
> 
> Thank you for reading ♡

“—sounds like things are going pretty good?” Charlie says, and Cas holds his breath, hidden by the sofa back as she and Dean come into the apartment. He’s not going to _eavesdrop_ , he reasons; it just feels rude to interrupt a conversation at an inopportune moment.

“Uh. Yeah, sure. Except for the part where he _stole my favorite shirt._ ”

“I thought you said he said it was an accident.”

“Well, it wasn’t. You should’ve seen how shifty he was bein’. No, he definitely stole it.”

“Right.”

Cas can practically hear Charlie rolling her eyes, and he allows himself a smug smile.

“But other than that?” she continues, probing, and there’s a pause before Cas hears Dean set his keys on the counter.

“Uh. It’s okay. It’s not as bad as it was, definitely, but — I don’t know. I still feel like we fight too much.”

“Well, what are you doing about it?”

“Trying not to?”

“What else?”

“What else can I do?”

“I don’t know. Aren’t you the one who said you were good at relationships? What would you usually do in this case?”

Dean snorts.

“Yeah, no, Charlie. I somehow doubt Cas will appreciate me fucking him into next week.”

Cas chokes on air, and as quick as he is to cover his mouth, chest spasming, a silence descends.

He waits, the sound of footsteps his only warning before Dean’s face appears above him.

“Hello, Dean,” he says calmly, heart pounding.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean returns wryly, bracing himself against the back of the sofa. “Didn’t see you there.”

Cas clears his throat.

“Ah, yes. I was just — taking a nap.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I’m real sorry we woke you.”

“Oh, you didn’t — I only just—”

Dean just gives him a look, and then suddenly leans down, intent.

“Alright, you little eavesdropper,” he starts, tone low, and Cas doesn’t dare move.

 _Are you going to fuck me into next week, now?_ he almost asks. Because they need to ask Charlie to leave, if that’s what’s going to happen.

As always, Dean disappoints.

“Where’d you put the t-shirt?”

Cas barely suppresses a sigh.

“I told you, you’ll never find it.” Cas is storing it at Meg’s, for the time being, though it is vaguely amusing to see Dean unsubtly searching the apartment sometimes.

“It’s my shirt,” Dean grumbles, leaning a little closer. The light from the balcony doors is casting a glare on Dean’s eyes, but Cas has the green committed to memory, and his nearness is no less potent for lack of it.

“No,” he says softly. “It’s mine.”

Dean looks at him for a long moment, and then his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip. Cas watches it, transfixed, humor almost entirely faded now, and he’s just beginning to wonder if — if something is about to _happen —_ when Dean abruptly straightens.

“You see?” he complains to Charlie, propping a hip against the sofa. “Dude’s guilty as fuck.”

“Unbelievable,” Charlie mutters, and Dean throws Cas a triumphant smirk.

“Hear that, buddy? Even Charlie thinks so.”

Cas is saved from having to answer, or feign breathing normally, by his phone ringing.

Dean leans back over him to swipe it off the coffee table, holding it just out of Cas’s reach as he inspects the caller ID.

“Dean,” Cas complains, making a grab for it, but Dean pulls it back.

“Oh, hey, Anna’s calling.”

“Yes, because that’s _my phone._ ”

“Well, maybe it’s mine, now,” Dean says, cheeky, and Cas pinches his side.

The phone drops.

“Dude, _ow._ ”

“Hello, Anna,” Cas says smoothly, rolling off the sofa and heading for the balcony.

“Hi, Cas.” Anna sounds amused. “Do I hear Dean griping in the background?”

“Yes, but it’s nothing to be concerned about.”

She snorts.

“I’m not. How are things going? You’re both still alive, by the sounds of it.”

“Yes, so far we’ve refrained from violence.”

She sighs theatrically.

“And you used to get along so well.”

She’s teasing, but it bothers Cas, somehow.

“We don’t . . . _not_ get along.”

A pause.

“I know,” she says slowly. “That’s why you’re best friends.”

Cas lets out a quiet breath. They are; Dean said so.

“And . . . that’s also why you’re living together,” she says neutrally, and Cas cracks a smile.

Anna was puzzled when Cas announced that he and Dean were moving in together, and Cas supplied some vague excuse about ‘savings,’ which made enough sense that she mostly doesn’t ask about.

Still, she thought it was a little weird that they’d start living together again, after having made the decision not to years ago.

Not that Cas was part of _that_ decision.

Anyway, he doesn’t even want to know what she’d say about this ridiculous bet; his sister’s never raised the issue with him, but he suspects she has her own ideas about his relationship with Dean, and if she knew what was happening here . . . odds are, she wouldn’t hold back.

Cas really, really doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Indeed,” he says, and with another sigh, Anna moves on.

Charlie’s gone by the time Cas comes back inside, and Dean’s taken up Cas’s previous spot on the sofa, sprawled out and sipping a beer.

“Hey,” he says, nodding at Cas, and turns down the volume on the TV. “How’s Anna?”

Dean and Anna don’t really talk on their own unless they have some kind of question relating to each other’s specific area of expertise, but as the only “not-dickish member of your piece of shit family,” Dean’s always had a soft spot for her.

Of course, the summer she had to spend at Bobby’s probably has something to do with it.

“She’s well. She just redid her kitchen.”

“Huh. I didn’t think she or Bela cooked.”

“They don’t. Half of it is part of the living room, now. And half of the living room became a closet.”

Dean snorts.

“They know that’s gonna hurt resale, right?”

“Perhaps. I don’t think they’re worried.”

Dean just shakes his head, rising from the sofa.

“Speakin’ of cooking, you ready to eat?”

“Sure. Where’d Charlie go?”

“Hot date. She showed me a picture on her phone, and you should’ve seen this chick. She’s a redhead, but Charlie’s going anyway, that’s how smokin’ she is.”

Cas shrugs.

“Redheads don’t particularly do it for me.” It’s never been a dealbreaker, but he doesn’t like seeing a partner in his peripheral and being put in mind of his older sister.

“Yeah, like my ginger beard doesn’t get you hot.” Dean winks, and then his face undergoes some weird spasm.

Cas remembers when it grew in, Dean’s pride over his new facial hair turning to confusion and alarm when the color became apparent; Cas had tried to be sympathetic, but he recalls perching beside Dean, running his hands over the stubbly hair with morbid fascination until Bobby came in and Dean jerked back and told him to stop being weird. Bobby had explained that that’s just how it is sometimes, and Cas has almost never seen Dean with a beard since.

And no, Dean’s ginger beard doesn’t get him hot, but Dean’s suggestive tone and accompanying wink kind of do.

He swallows.

“Guilty,” he says calmly. “If you stop shaving, I’ll have to move out, or I’ll never let you leave the bed.”

Dean’s laughter comes out weak and stilted, and Cas decides that was probably too far. He coughs.

“You said something about dinner?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll just — uh, how’s chicken pasta sound to you?”

“I like ev—”

“Yeah, yeah, you like everything I make,” Dean mutters, shuffling into the kitchen. “There’s still a thing called ‘being in the mood.’”

Cas closes his eyes.

“Right. Well. I am. For chicken pasta.”

There’s a long silence.

“Cool. Uh, it’ll be ready in about thirty minutes.”

He nods, even though Dean can’t see him, and goes to set up the radio, just in case.

Dean smiles at him when he comes in, but for whatever reason, it seems a little strained.

“Kitchen remodel, huh?” he murmurs after a few moments, glancing around wistfully.

“Closet remodel, arguably.”

Dean chuckles.

“Yeah. Still. That’s nice.” He looks thoughtful. “I’m glad she’s doin’ so well.”

Cas nods.

“Yes. She deserves it.”

“Shit, man, you both do,” Dean mutters, shaking his head. Cas isn’t sure what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything at all.

When Anna was seventeen, Cas’s parents threw her out.

Cas was the youngest of six, but the youngest of his four brothers had left for school the year before Dean came to town, and he hardly knew or remembered much about the older ones. Anna was nearest to him in age, though four years older, and the only one of them Cas was ever close to.

As a child, she was daring and full of mischief, despite the strictness of their parents; more importantly, she was clever enough to stay undetected in most of her hijinx.

 _Most_ of them.

Home was always quiet and vaguely oppressive growing up, something Cas didn’t realize was strange until he met Dean. He felt like he’d spend the whole day laughing when he was with Dean — even in those early, unhappy days, Dean couldn’t seem to help but be funny — and home would feel silent and empty in comparison.

But sometimes Anna would play jokes, too, when Mom and Dad weren’t looking. She’d work stealthily, making Cas smile during the long hours spent in church meetings, and tell him funny stories in soft, hushed tones while they did their homework. Sometimes, she’d even play small pranks, things their parents wrote off as coincidence, but Cas would take one look at her twinkling eyes and just _know_ she’d somehow done it.

And then one day, Anna went too far.

Cas doesn’t remember what it was, and they’ve never talked about, but he remembers his mom shouting at him to go to his room. He’d hovered at the top of the stairs instead, flinching at every yell, so loud he was sure the whole street could hear, with Anna’s quieter voice stubbornly trying speak in between, until suddenly, there was a loud, sharp _crack._

Everything went silent, and Cas risked a glance over the stair railing to see his sister staring at their mother with wide, shocked eyes, a hand pressed to her tear-streaked face.

When she let it fall, Cas saw that it bore a bright scarlet mark on one cheek, like a handprint.

Anna stopped playing jokes after that.

But a strong spirit cannot be suppressed for long, and a year later, when Cas was thirteen and Dean had just said goodbye at the driveway and started back home for dinner, Cas approached the front door to hear loud, angry voices behind it.

He stood there, anxious and uncertain as the voices grew to shouts, until finally, the door swung open, and his mother was shoving Anna through it.

She stumbled down the steps, catching her fall on her palms. Cas had done that, before, and he knew it hurt. She’d have to be careful washing her hands, picking tiny bits of gravel out of them, and that would hurt, too; Dean had done it for Cas, last time, gentle in a way that should have surprised him but never had.

“ _Get out!”_ _h_ is mother screamed. “You _ungrateful_ , _unnatural_ child — you are _not_ welcome in this house _ever again_!”

Anna scrabbled to her feet, eyes blazing.

“ _Good_!” She shouted back. “I don’t want to be! Fuck you and fuck your stupid rules—”

“I did _not_ raise you to be this way—”

“No, but thank God I am! I will _never_ be what you want me to be, and I don’t want to! And if there is a God, he’s probably _ashamed_ of you, you horrible old _bitch_!”

Cas had never heard his sister cuss like that in his _life._

His mother reached down, snatching up a small, wilted potted plant on the porch, and threw it at her.

Anna dodged just in time, the little pot sailing right past her ear and smashing into pieces on the sidewalk.

“Are you _crazy_?” she hissed. “You could have _killed_ me.”

“As if it would be any great loss,” his mother returned coldly, and Anna’s expression went flat.

Without another word, she stalked off down the street.

“Stop _gawking,_ Castiel,” his mother spat, and Cas jerked to attention, eyes wide. He was shaking all over, probably had been for several minutes. She narrowed her eyes at him. “And let this be a lesson to you.”

His mother strode inside and slammed the door shut behind her.

Cas just stood there, terrified, for several seconds afterward; her meaning was clear. _If you step out of line, that will be you._

Was he not allowed inside tonight? Was that why she shut the door behind her? Was he supposed to follow her? Would he get in trouble if he didn’t? What was going to happen to Anna, if she couldn’t come back home?

It was that last unknown that made the decision for him. He thought of Dean, carefully cradling Cas’s upturned hand and wielding Ellen’s tweezers as he chattered away in an effort to distract him from the procedure, and promptly took off running in the direction his sister went.

He caught up to her pretty easily — Cas was a fast runner, a little faster than Dean, even, though Dean was taller; Bobby said Cas could do track in high school, if he wanted — and Anna didn’t protest when he looped a hand around her wrist, careful not to jostle her palm.

“Let’s go to Dean’s,” he told her, and if she found it strange that he thought that was some kind of solution, she didn’t say.

By nightfall, Anna was cleaned up and settled on an air mattress in Jo’s room, and Cas was in his usual spot in Dean’s bed. Ellen had hesitated before she’d shut the door, asking Cas if he wanted the sofa or something for the floor, now that he and Dean were getting so big, but of all the nights to suggest Cas _wouldn’t_ sleep next to Dean—

Something in his face had her quickly backtracking, and she wished them a good night and went away.

“You okay, Cas?” Dean asked quietly, conscious of Sam slumbering on the other side of the room. Cas pressed his face to his pillow, squeezing his eyes shut, and shook his head. “What’s wrong?”

“My Mom said Anna couldn’t come home.”

“Maybe she’ll change her mind,” Dean suggested, but Cas knew he didn’t believe it. Dean was always saying how mean Cas’s Mom was, that it wasn’t normal, even though he knew it upset Cas; still, it was nice of him to try.

“She won’t. She threw a pot at her, and then she told me—” The words stuck in his throat, and Dean’s face darkened.

“What? What did she tell you? She didn’t do anything to you, right?”

“No. No, but she said — she said ‘let this be a lesson to you.’”

Dean went silent, body rigid beneath the blanket. Cas could practically feel the anger in the air around him, and he wanted to regret saying anything, but he couldn’t. He was scared and upset and he knew his Mom hadn’t even called to ask if he was there — probably hadn’t even cared that he hadn’t come home — and even if Dean got angry, he’d still make Cas feel better.

He always did.

“What’s Anna going to do?”

“I don’t know, Cas,” Dean said stiffly. “Bobby and Ellen’ll help her figure somethin’ out.”

“What about me? What if I do something wrong and she kicks me out, too, and I have nowhere to go and—”

Dean rolled over and put his arms around Cas, squishing the huffy, panicked words right out of his lungs.

“Stop that,” he commanded, tucking Cas’s head against his neck. Cas took short, gasping breaths, frozen in surprise and residual fear. “Just — breathe with me, okay? Listen and follow.”

Dean took a deep, slow breath, and then let it out. Then he did it again, and again, and finally Cas’s heart rate began to slow, and on the fourth breath, he inhaled at the same time Dean did, releasing it in sync with him.

“There you go,” Dean murmured, and guided him through another minute of deep, even breaths.

“Okay,” he said finally. “Okay, Cas, you listening?”

Cas nodded, not quite able to speak.

“Whatever your mom does, it doesn’t matter. It’ll be okay, ‘cause I’m _always_ gonna take care of you, alright? Always. I promise.”

Cas nodded again, and finally, lifted his arms up to put them around Dean.

They were thirteen years old, and maybe getting too old for hugs, according to some, but still, Dean held on tight — just like Cas did every November 2nd.

And for the first time, Cas understood just how much that meant.

In hindsight, it was naive of Dean to promise such a thing, and even more naive of Cas to believe him, but Cas didn’t question it for years. To Cas, Dean was some approximation of a God, almighty and watchful and _good,_ and Cas believed in him like it was his religion.

He knows better now, but sometimes he wonders if Dean ever thought of it, afterward. If he even remembers now.

And then he thinks about walking through their college apartment, half-filled with boxes of Dean’s stuff, just one semester left to go. He thinks about waking up in the hospital, afraid and ashamed and utterly alone, even though he knew they must have called Dean. And he thinks about hearing how Dean took his new boyfriend to Thanksgiving that year, about how Cas has hardly seen Bobby and Ellen since.

And he decides that no, Dean probably doesn’t remember it at all.

Dean puts a plate of chicken pasta in front of him thirty minutes later, along with a full water glass.

“You been staying hydrated?” he asks.

“I don’t need babysitting,” Cas says, far more bitterly than he should, but Dean just shrugs and nudges the glass closer.

“But you need functioning kidneys. Bottoms up, man.”

Cas ignores it in favor of attacking his pasta, only to find that Dean has cut the angel-hair into small bits, all the better to eat with a spoon.

The way Cas prefers.

And he hates it, but stupid, meaningless little things like this make him turn around and wonder if maybe, just maybe, Dean remembers after all.

Of course, the shirt incident comes back to bite him in the ass.

Cas is waiting at home the night of their first date, doing his best to appear casual after having spent an hour picking out his clothes, when Dean walks in.

Wearing Cas’s favorite grey t-shirt.

It’s the one with the blue stitching at the collar, the soft one that never bunches weird under jackets, and it looks good on him.

Really good. Almost everything looks good on Dean, but this is different somehow, even though rationally he knows that literally no one else would be able to tell that Dean is wearing _Cas’s_ t-shirt.

And yet, the fact that _Cas_ can — it makes a difference.

Dean just throws him a bright smile and tells him he’ll be ready on time, then wanders off to the bathroom, where he’s going to tug Cas’s cozy grey t-shirt up and over his head, to be tossed on the floor with the rest of his laundry, still warm from its place on his body all. Fucking. Day.

Cas brews himself a cup of coffee, fingers itching.

And when Dean reemerges, clad in Cas’s second favorite green sweater—

“Is there something wrong with your closet?” he demands, on his feet without realizing.

“Huh? Uh, sort of. I’m behind on the laundry—”

Cas was afraid of this.

“You _must_ have outgrown that by now.”

“Dude, you have like a million sweaters,” Dean points out, as if that has anything to do with his bizarre laundry allergy. Cas had been used to it, back in college, but it’s been years and Cas is old and not nearly as in denial, now. He can’t handle this shit.

“But—” he starts, trying to figure out how to tell Dean to stay the fuck out of his closet without making it obvious that Dean in his clothes just makes him want to take them _off,_ and not because he needs them back. “But you should at least ask.”

“You weren’t around.”

Cas doesn’t know what to say to that, mostly because it’s total _bullshit,_ as far as excuses go.

Eventually, Dean sighs, and then reaches for the hem.

“Sorry, man. I can change.”

Cas shakes himself from his stupor just in time to hold up a hand before the sweater can go anywhere.

“No. Leave it, it’s fine — just — next time—” He inhales deeply. “Alright. Let’s go.”

Dean brightens considerably.

“Yeah, okay. Thanks — I’ll do the wash tomorrow.”

He looks Dean over one last time, vaguely miserable, and nods.

“Please.”

That settled, Cas escapes out the door.

Only to lose _dramatically_ over the course of the next two hours.

Cas is great at throwing things or shooting things, and yet being forced to hunch over and use a tiny little club as proxy utterly devastates his accuracy.

“Huh. I think this is my new lucky sweater,” Dean comments, after silently emanating smugness for most of the drive home.

Cas slouches a little more in the passenger seat, not even bothering to hide his resentment.

“You got lucky.” Dean was too busy heckling Cas to pay attention half the time; there’s no way _all_ of that was skill.

“Uh, I think I would have remembered that.”

Cas is not amused.

(Well, maybe a little, but not _enough._ )

“Whatever. You’ve still never beat me at bowling.”

“Because I’m not _sixty._ ”

“Ah, yes, I’m an old man. How cutting.”

“Anyway, ‘course you’re better at bowling. You’ve got a lot more practice handling balls.”

It’s juvenile and shameless and it takes everything Cas has not to laugh, especially when Dean takes advantage of the red light to give him a delighted, expectant look.

“I don’t believe you,” Cas says, careful not to look at him, but he’s pretty sure Dean can tell, anyway.

Week four passes with hardly any conflict, and the routine they’ve settled into is so pleasant Cas is pretty sure he should be suspicious of it.

And he is, but not enough to do anything about it.

Which is precisely why he goes into their regular appointment with Dr. Barnes naively assuming himself _safe._ Things are going well; Cas has no desire to stir up drama; what could there possibly be to talk about?

A lot more than he knows, apparently.

“So, one month! And you’re both still here. How has it been, living together? Sometimes the most difficult thing can be to adjust to another person’s habits.”

“It’s not as difficult to readjust,” Dean says, and it’s surprising; Cas has always assumed Dean found him hard to live with, enough that he didn’t feel like he _could._ Why else would he have left so abruptly, back then?

“What do you mean?” Pamela asks, leaving Cas grateful he doesn’t have to.

Dean shrugs.

“We roomed together in college for a bit.”

A _bit._

“Seven semesters,” Cas corrects, voice coming out quieter than he meant it, but Dean made it sound like—

“Of eight?”

“Yep,” Dean agrees, oddly clipped, though if anyone here should be upset, it’s Cas.

“Consecutively?”

“Yes. Dean moved out when we had half of senior year remaining.” Cas tries not to make it sound like an accusation, or worse, a demand for an explanation, but he doesn’t know if he succeeds.

“I see. Why was that?”

There’s a lengthy silence.

“I don’t know,” Cas eventually says, and he doesn’t, has given it a lot of thought and mustered a variety of answers, but found none of them wholly satisfactory.

“Dean?”

“Uh. I don’t know, our habits were gettin’ more and more different and, uh, last semester before graduation was gonna be stressful for me, so — I just thought it’d be better to get my own place.”

What does that even mean? Their habits had been different for _years_ before, not to mention — Dean never said anything. Usually, if Dean was unhappy, you _knew,_ even though he might not tell you _why,_ but while they might have been struggling the last couple months, it wasn’t for the reason Cas had thought, and he’d assumed they’d get through it, like they always did.

He never thought Dean would _leave._

“Was there a particular catalyst among your . . . different habits, that prompted this? A move for just six months seems like a big leap, if the semester before had gone alright.”

Cas watches him closely, searching his expression even as he does his best not to let his own give anything away.

“I don’t know. I just — was nervous. Cas had people over a lot, kept weird hours. It was startin’ to wear on me.”

Pamela hums, but Cas is significantly less satisfied with that answer. If Dean’s telling the truth, it’s a stupid truth, and it’s hard for Cas to understand how it could possibly be enough to drive Dean away quite like that.

“You should have said something. We only had a semester left. I would have worked out something different.”

If Dean had indicated he was even _considering_ moving out, Cas would have told him to name his terms, and he would have accepted them, whatever they were. It never should have come to that.

Dean has the nerve to _smile._

“Yeah, but you shouldn’t have had to, so I worked something out instead. It ended up being fine, anyway.”

 _Fine,_ he says, like it’s nothing. Like t he months after that weren’t, hands down, the _worst_ of Cas’s life — and what’s more, Dean fucking _knows_ that, knows exactly how Cas ended up, what almost happened—

He turns away.

“Well. Do you find living together now similar to then?” Pamela asks, and Cas would be thankful for the slight topic change if he weren’t so upset.

“In some ways, I guess. Dude still bitches about every little thing I do—”

“That’s not true, Dean,” Cas interrupts. “I also bitch about all the many little things you _don’t_ do.”

“ _Anyway,_ he hasn’t changed much.”

“Castiel?”

“Same,” he mumbles. He wants to go home. He wants to get high and forget this conversation ever happened, but that’s not happening, so he settles for the next best thing: taking petty shots at Dean. “Although now I have to deal with his snoring. We used to have the privilege of separate rooms.”

“Those were the days.” Dean lets out a loud, wistful sigh. “Now I wake up half a dozen times a night to pry the fucker’s hands off of me.”

Cas’s brain stutters to a halt.

“What?”

“You sleep cuddle.”

He can feel his face growing hot even as he desperately tries to attribute any other possible meaning to the words.

“You — you’re joking.”

“Fine, maybe only two or three times a night.”

Oh, God. Surely, this is some kind of nightmare. Dean cannot seriously mean that, multiple times a night, he must free himself from Cas’s unconscious clutches. That Cas crosses the sacred boundary between them, pressing close and putting his _hands_ on Dean until Dean finally wakes up and pushes him off.

A horrible part of him has the nerve to be _disappointed_ that he can’t even remember.

“Well, that is one of the unique difficulties of your situation. You’re participating in a lot of intimate things despite not actually being intimate with one another.”

Dean goes quiet at that, and for all his flippant words and the fact that Cas just _knows_ he’s enjoying how embarrassed Cas is over this, he probably hates that it’s an issue. One might argue that it was Dean’s fault for always seeking out some kind of comforting touch when they shared a bed as children, establishing a pattern for Cas’s body to unconsciously follow, but it would be a weak argument. Only on very rare occasions did they actually _cuddle,_ and Cas certainly never had sleeping habits like this before.

He doesn’t understand why this is happening now.

Still, he raises his chin.

“If it makes Dean uncomfortable, I’m happy to sleep on the sofa.”

Cas doesn’t want to sleep on the sofa, is already used to falling asleep in the comforting embrace of Dean’s memory foam mattress, and also is beginning to wonder if his furtive midnight cuddles are the whole reason he feels so good in the mornings, lately — but now that the offer’s out there, he knows Dean will take it.

Except he doesn’t.

“Not really,” Dean says, easy as anything, and something in Cas calms. “We’ve known each other since we were kids. It’s not much different than when I’ve had to share with Sammy.”

The calm dissipates. Cas would examine the feeling that takes its place, but suddenly everything is red to him.

“Okay,” Pamela begins hastily. “Well, that’s — good. It’s — it’s good, that you can accept each other’s more inconvenient habits. Dean, you were saying you were having trouble with some of Cas’s when you moved out in college. Do you think they may still be a problem as time goes on?”

“Well, I mean — the nature of — of the arrangement, kinda means he doesn’t have as many, uh, guests. So — so that’s less of an issue.”

Guests? Dean moved out because he didn’t like how many people Cas had over?

Why the _fuck_ didn’t he just _say_ so?

“That seems to imply Castiel mostly socializes in a sexual context.”

“Well—” Dean begins, and just — no.

“Dean and I share our platonic friend group, who keep more regular hours than my other acquaintances, so no, it isn’t really an issue under the circumstances.”

Pamela looks pleased, smiling.

“That’s excellent. A shared community helps form a very positive foundation for a relationship.”

“Not a relationship,” Dean mumbles, and Pamela shakes her head at him.

“It is for the next five months, Dean, and if you hope to make it work, you’ll treat it like one.”

“Right.”

Dean sighs, and Cas wonders if they’ll even make it that far.

And perhaps Cas overreacted in therapy — perhaps he should let it go, now that so many years have passed — but it’s difficult to express just how devastated he was when Dean moved out in college, and his utter confusion over _why_ only exacerbated things.

He nearly drove himself mad trying to sort it out, and in the end, he couldn’t. Only Dean could really know why he felt like that was the only solution to a problem Cas hadn’t even been aware of and still doesn’t fully understand.

Dean returned to school at the beginning of senior year newly heartbroken by a girl Cas occasionally worried he might try and marry, and regardless of whatever perpetual, unacknowledged conflict seemed to hover between them in those years, they still took the best friend thing very seriously when it counted.

So Cas stayed sober (unless Dean didn’t want to be), refused all his usual guests, and spent most evenings either at home relaxing and goofing off with Dean or out at some bar or club, also relaxing and goofing off with Dean. Dean was either not that heartbroken or handling it very well (Cas didn’t dare credit himself for the lack of drama), and things were . . . nice.

Honestly, things were more like they’d always been, like Cas had hoped for, when he used to think about being with Dean in college.

Of course, Cas naively supposed himself recovered from a mere case of puppy love, attributing all of the tension to the fact that Dean didn’t exactly appreciate the surface changes in Cas’s personality. Whatever it was that made spending all this time with Dean so deeply satisfying to his soul, he assumed it was platonic.

Which made his reaction to Dean randomly announcing his first date since Cassie all the more bizarre.

Cas took it in stride, as he did most things, and wished Dean luck when he left at six-thirty.

And then he sat, alone and unexpectedly anxious, for the half-hour after that — just staring at the wall.

The anxiety grew, invited nausea, and if Cas hadn’t been effectively sober for weeks, he would have thought something had lingered and was now giving him a bad trip. Dean’s date and his thoughts of sobriety reminded him that he hadn’t so much as made out with anyone since he’d come back to school, too busy trying to make himself available to Dean in his time of emotional distress, and thus, the solution to the horrible, unsettled feeling in his gut finally presented itself.

He texted a classmate he’d hooked up with a few times, one he didn’t necessarily care to talk to but who was undeniably gorgeous, with spiky dark blonde hair ideal for tugging at, a strong jaw and uncommonly pretty hazel eyes. The idea sounded better and better as he waited, and by the time the guy showed up Cas was already burning hot, desperate to shake the queasy, rattled sensation beneath his skin.

In retrospect, it was very rude of Cas to let the guy blow him right there in the living room, but it’s not like he hadn’t ever walked in on _Dean_ before, and besides — how could he possibly have known Dean would be coming back?

But Dean did come back. Cas was too busy chasing the finish line, frustratingly close to the edge but still bogged down by jittery nerves he couldn’t even begin to explain, and didn’t hear the sound of keys in the lock.

Only when the door pushed open, and Cas ducked his chin — desperately focused on trying to find that last little bit to push him over the edge — did he open his eyes and see Dean, staring right at him.

 _So fucking beautiful,_ he thought, beyond his control and utterly inappropriate, and finally, he came undone.

Dean said it was fine the next day, but Cas knew it wasn’t. The easy friendship they’d returned to seemed to disappear overnight, and Dean barely said a word to him for weeks. Cas didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t say anything — as if Dean would ever talk about it — which meant he couldn’t ask what about that moment had upset Dean so much.

Was it the guy? Dean had known Cas was a staunch equal-opportunist for a few years, and Charlie had been out since middle school. But lesbians were different to straight guys, and maybe Dean just didn’t think very hard about it until he’d seen Cas getting blown in the fucking living room, and maybe he was disgusted and creeped out and whatever bond they had paled in comparison to just how filthy and gross he now found Cas—

The thought kept him up some nights, but it still wasn’t the worst one.

Cas wasn’t stupid. He might not have been in love with Dean anymore, but he wasn’t blind, and Dean was still the most beautiful person he’d ever encountered. That last little push he was looking for? He knew what it was, and it wasn’t the dedicated efforts of the guy from his etymology class.

And maybe — maybe Dean had figured it out, too. Maybe something in his face, totally open and uninhibited in that moment, had given him away, and in addition to being forced to witness his deviant practices, Dean was now _afraid._ Afraid that Cas was just lurking in the apartment, eyeing him up and thinking dirty thoughts, dreaming about doing terrible, unwanted things to him. Cas was always careful to avoid thinking about Dean in connection with anything even loosely related to sex, but he couldn’t even tell Dean that, because Dean was avoiding him and on the off-chance Dean _wasn’t_ afraid of that, he probably would be if Cas brought it up.

The best Cas could do was give Dean his space, so he did. If Dean didn’t seek him out, he left him alone, and he made sure to return to his previous hosting habits, with a slight bias toward women, just in case, as if to say _see, Dean? I’m totally not interested, and you don’t have anything to worry about, and I will mostly refrain from doing any weird gay things in our shared apartment._

It didn’t work. The weeks passed and Dean was as closed-off and uncommunicative as he’d been when he’d first moved to Lawrence, and through it all, Cas had started having some kind of strange, slow, quiet meltdown.

And then one Saturday — Dean finally said something, something other than the meaningless exchanges they’d been having since the incident.

“So, um, any of those, uh, people you’re seeing — are you . . . seeing any of them?”

It was hellishly early, and Dean had completely failed to buy more milk even though he’d promised to, so they were stuck with plain cereal while they watched old Looney Tunes. Cas would have reminded him, but Dean had never been this scatterbrained in the past, and besides — he was afraid to do anything that might upset him.

In light of this, he didn’t understand at all what Dean was trying to say, and he was a little impatient when he answered.

“What the fuck are you asking me, Dean? It’s too early for riddles.”

“No, it’s not a riddle — I mean — you — like, are you dating any of them? Or are you — going to? Date them?”

Cas stared, tired brain working gamely to parse the question. In the end, it determined that it was a _stupid_ question.

“I’m sleeping with several of them, which I thought was obvious.”

“No, I — I get that, trust me, but I mean . . . y’think you’ll like — date _one_ of them? Y’know. Like, a — a relationship.”

It finally clicked, then, and Cas was startled into silence. Dean was asking if he was going to _date_ anyone. If _Cas,_ undiscriminating college cliché, was going steady with a single person.

And then he realized what Dean was _actually_ worried about. Dean wasn’t asking if Cas was seeing anyone, exclusively and longterm. Dean was asking if Cas had a boyfriend, or would get a boyfriend. He was wondering if this was going to be their lives, if Dean would have to feel awkward around Cas all the time because he was dating a dude, if Cas might even marry said dude and then Dean would have to spend the rest of their lives trying not to show how fucking uncomfortable it made him.

If it meant this distance that had arisen between them would _always_ be there.

Well, he didn’t need to worry. Dean was his first and last love — and that was a product of youthful fancy and excessive attachment — and Cas’s heart hadn’t been even remotely at risk since.

Not that he thought it was Dean’s fault, or anything.

“Oh, wow, Dean. No. No, I don’t think I’ll ‘date’ any of them.” He kept his eyes carefully focused on the television, just in case any of the hurt, both old and new, was showing there. “I doubt I’ll ever ‘date’ _anyone._ You have to have feelings for people to do that.”

Dean didn’t say a goddamn word.

Ultimately, Cas’s theory was blown out of the water, in the most crushing and humiliating of ways possible.

Desperate not to think or feel anything about his fucked up situation with Dean, Cas threw his usual end-of-semester party at the apartment, committed to getting wasted in every sense of the word and forgetting about all of it, if only for the night.

To his surprise, Dean joined in.

Finals must have taken their toll on him, because he went straight for the hard liquor and seemed to have few intentions of slowing down once he started. It was enough to disrupt Cas’s own plans for the evening, and he found himself holding back a little, keeping an eye on Dean.

It’s not that Dean couldn’t handle his booze; on the contrary, he handled it too well, and overheard hushed conversations between Bobby and Ellen combined with the few times Cas had ever run into John Winchester had made him paranoid.

But an hour and a half later, Dean was headed for mellow and dopey at a much less alarming rate, and Cas finally allowed himself to relax,

A little while after that, he found Dean on the sofa, more at ease than Cas had seen him in a long time, enough that it seemed like a good idea to go ahead and plunk down beside him. Dean was a lot farther gone than Cas had expected, though. He accepted Cas’s offered beer, gulped it, and then set it down before finally offering some muttered greeting.

And then he tilted forward.

At first, Cas thought he was falling over — but then it quickly became apparent that the movement was controlled, more in his head than his body, and suddenly Dean’s face was inches away, leaving Cas no choice but to fall back.

Dean followed, and Cas reached up to grab his shoulder, halting the collision.

“Dean,” he said, strangely numb as he squinted up at him. “What are you doing?”

Because if Cas didn’t know any better, he’d say Dean was trying to _kiss_ him.

Dean abruptly lurched back, staring.

“Shit,” he said, and then let out a laugh so high and strange Cas knew then and there that that was _exactly_ what Dean had been trying to do. “I — I have no idea, man. Woah. Think I had too many.”

“Indeed,” Cas muttered, and could do nothing but stare back. It went without saying that Dean had had _too many._ Under no other circumstances would it have even occurred to him to kiss Cas.

In fact, by the sounds of it, it _hadn’t_ occurred to him to kiss Cas. It was something his drunken body had just _done._

Dean was on his feet the next moment, swaying, and Cas almost reached out to steady him. He was afraid, though; if he touched Dean right now, he had no idea how he’d react.

“Know what? I better go lie down or somethin’. I’ll, uh, see you later. Or in the morning, whatever.”

“Okay.” It was the best plan, really; perhaps if Dean went to sleep it off now, he might not even remember in the morning.

Cas would, of course. Cas knew he would, because he hadn’t gotten that drunk and he certainly hadn’t taken anything, and already he could recall that moment like it was happening even now.

He could recall it, and he did. All through the party, and even after everyone left in the wee hours of the morning, Cas was lost in his head, thinking about the look Dean had given him as he’d leaned in close. Thinking about Dean’s weight above him, Dean staring down at him, the distance maintained only by Cas’s hand on Dean’s shoulder.

Thinking about what would have happened if Cas hadn’t put there. Or if he had, and instead of talking, had let it slide across Dean’s warm, strong back, had cupped the back of Dean’s neck and pulled him down.

All fucking night, Cas thought about it, thought about Dean in ways he hadn’t for years, and then thought about Dean in ways he hadn’t known how to, before.

About how good he just _knew_ it would be, because it was _Dean,_ and how could anything with Dean not be the _best_ of—

And right then, around six in the morning, dead tired and still unable to sleep because in the alternate reality in his head, he’d be lying right next to Dean at that point, Cas realized something terrible.

He was still in love with Dean.

Thank _God_ he hadn’t let him kiss him.

Everything was back to normal in the morning — or whatever passed for normal the last few months — and true to Cas’s expectations, Dean seemed none the wiser. They passed the last few days before Dean went back to Bobby’s and Cas went to visit Anna in mostly peaceful quiet, and before they left, Dean gave him his Christmas present and warned him not to get thrown in British prison. It was the most genuine Cas had seen him in months, and horrifying emotional revelations aside, Cas felt good about where they left things.

When they came back, Dean moved out.

Dean found another place to live, and put all his things in boxes, the things Cas had been used to seeing every day for years, and then he left, all without saying a word.

And Cas — Cas still has no idea why.

He doesn’t bother trying to explain any of this in therapy.

Unpleasant walks down memory lane aside, Cas has a much more pressing, _present_ issue to deal with.

Apparently, he sleep cuddles.

Recent development or not, it’s a thing, and it’s a giant fucking problem.

Cas broods over it all evening — how does one control something they do _unconsciously_? — and has yet to arrive at any solution by bedtime, at which point his brain decides the _only_ solution is to stay vigilant and just _not sleep._

Dean, of course, notices.

“Uh, dude, are you okay?”

_No._

That’s hardly an acceptable answer, though, because God forbid Dean ask _why_ _._

It takes Cas a moment to find his words.

“Yes. Good night, Dean.”

There’s a lengthy, weighted silence beside him, and then Dean asks:

“Are you _sure_ you’re okay?”

His tone is unmistakably amused, and Cas can’t help but turn towards him.

“Yes,” he insists, defiant.

“Really? ‘Cause it looks to me like you’re too freaked out to go to sleep.”

This, he thinks, is the problem with people who’ve known you for basically ever. They know how you operate, they can use it against you, and they’ve known you long enough to _want_ to.

“And why would that be?”

Dean snorts.

“You’re scared you’re gonna cuddle me and get cooties or something.”

If Cas wasn’t already tense, he certainly is now. Cooties, Cas can handle. Cas has actively sought out many varieties of cooties over the years and come through none the worse for wear.

No, Cas is scared that he will cuddle Dean, only to have his vindictive sub-conscious decide to take things one step further.

And _that —_ that must never happen. Even if Cas could survive it, Dean probably can’t, and what’s more, he doesn’t deserve that kind of harassment.

“I am not scared—” he tries, but Dean’s not interested in his excuses.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were having some kind of gay panic over there, but obviously that whole _fleet_ has sailed. And how did you not know you sleep-cuddled, anyway?”

“It’s not _me_ I’m worried about,” he manages, terse. “Believe it or not, I don’t want to make _you_ uncomfortable. And you know I don’t — _sleep_ with people.”

He’s conked out in Meg’s bed a couple of times, but a quick text interrogation earlier in the evening had turned up a whopping _what the fuck are you on, Clarence_ with a side of _like I would let you._

And maybe his sub-conscious brain is just scared of Meg, but Cas is pretty sure the issue here centers around Dean.

As most of his issues tend to do.

“Whatever, dude, it’s fine,” Dean says, surprising him. It’s — unexpectedly kind, and Cas wants to appreciate it, but he’d rather Dean just be honest.

Because he _isn’t_ being honest. If he were, he’d be telling Cas just how creepy it is to wake up with your best friend plastered against you, hands in places they shouldn’t be, because literally _nowhere_ on Dean’s body is an okay place for Cas’s hands to be.

The thought stings more than it should.

“It isn’t. You said you have to — to wake up and move me.”

Dean is quiet for so long, Cas knows he’s right. He lets out a frustrated breath.

“We can put a pillow in between us, if that will be more comfortable.”

Once again, Dean surprises him.

“Nah. Honestly, I don’t have to bother moving you if you’re cool with it.”

Cas blinks.

“What?”

Dean’s going to just — he won’t even — he’s just — _okay_ with Cas doing that?

Cas doesn’t even know if _he’s_ okay with doing that.

“Just don’t get mad at me if you wake up with a faceful of nipples,” Dean continues, and the picture that flashes into Cas’s mind burns right over any doubts.

“ _What?_ Dean, that doesn’t even make _sense,_ and also? What a fucking _horrifying_ mental image.”

He thinks he can make out Dean’s grin in the dark, even as he sidles closer, and although it’s just the I’m-pleased-with-my-joke-grin, Cas can still feel his own heart start to race.

“Here, allow me to demons- _ow!_ ”

And maybe Cas shoves a little harder than necessary, but _really_. Dean is ridiculous, and bafflingly, Cas adores him because of it.

“Go to bed, Dean,” he grouses, rolling over, and buries his smile in the pillow.

To the best of his knowledge, Cas doesn’t stop his shameless nighttime cuddles, but Dean doesn’t bring it up again.

And every morning, like clockwork, Cas wakes up with a sensation of _rightness_ he can’t even kid himself into pretending is meaningless.

It’s surprisingly easy to get used to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** SPOILERS ***
> 
> Child abuse: In a flashback, Cas remembers Anna being in trouble and their mother slapping her. Later, she's thrown out of the house. His mother is verbally abusive to her, then throws a pot at her head. Once Anna has left, his mother tells him to stop gawking, and indicates this should be a lesson to him before slamming the door. Cas is left unsure if he's allowed to go into the house or not, or if he'll be in trouble if he doesn't, and he's very anxious over what will happen to Anna.
> 
> Past Cas/other: Cas receives a non-explicit blowjob from a classmate in a flashback.
> 
> Anxiety over perceived homophobia: After Dean walks in on Cas with a guy, he starts behaving oddly; at a loss, Cas is afraid this is a homophobic reaction, and that Dean is no longer comfortable with him. He worries Dean suspects him of lusting after him, and that Dean is afraid of a future in which he has to deal with his best friend dating a man. (This is not actually the case. You can probably guess why Dean was actually uncomfortable.)
> 
> References to alcoholism: In a flashback, Cas worries over Dean's liquor habits, and recalls overhearing conversations between Bobby and Ellen expressing concerns over it. Encounters with drunk John are referenced.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: references to alcohol as an unhealthy coping mechanism, flirting/failed attempts to hook up between Dean/OFC and Cas/OMC, details in the end notes. Please let me know if I missed something.
> 
> Thank you all very much for reading, and for your encouragement ♡♡ I hope you enjoy!

Despite Dean’s bluster, Cas is pretty sure he’s just as bad at dating as Cas is, except he doesn’t have the excuse of zero experience.

He’s not stupid enough to _say_ so, but he’s understandably wary when it’s Dean’s week to plan and Dean tells him to get his suit pressed.

Cas doesn’t remember owning a suit that fits his current, post-adolescence body, but lo and behold, he finds one in his closet.

“Where did this come from?” he wonders aloud, and there’s a snort from the bathroom.

“ _Dude._ You wore that to two of your brothers’ weddings,” Dean says, and Cas frowns.

“Only one of my brothers is married.”

“Yeah, but remember when Gabriel had that magic show in Vegas and he met that girl with the snakes—”

“—and he insisted I fly out and attend the wedding,” Cas finishes, the blank resolving into fuzzy memory. He’s pretty sure he was stoned the whole time, which may be why he doesn’t quite recall it.

That, or it was a _Vegas_ wedding, and who honestly remembers those?

“And then he got divorced three months later.”

Cas sighs.

“How do you remember all of this? You weren’t even there.”

It takes a moment for Cas to remember why — he and Dean weren’t talking a whole lot, at the time, or else Cas probably would have spent thirteen hours in Baby’s passenger seat, trying to outshrill Dean as they sang along to all his ancient rock tapes, instead of going via plane — and the pause that follows is long enough that he wonders if Dean is thinking about that, too.

“Facebook,” Dean finally says. “I’m gonna . . . go start dinner.”

So Cas takes one look at the suit, dusty and only very slightly wrinkled, and when Dean asks, later, if he took it to the cleaners — he says ‘Yes.’

He barely even feels guilty.

Of course, when date-night rolls around and he finally manages to tie his tie after twenty minutes of effort, only for it to look like gift ribbon after some determined recipient has tugged it into limp, wrinkled submission, he spares a moment to wonder if it’s karma.

“I think you wore more ties in high school than you ever have as an adult,” Dean comments, lazily propped up on one hand while he reclines on the bed.

“They’re restricting.”

He carefully unknots the most recent disaster and begins anew.

“I used to think of it as like, your suit of armor,” Dean continues, unconcerned and thoughtful. “Couldn’t go anywhere without the tie and coat, or you’d fall in battle.”

It’s a complete mess, and Cas pulls it loose before he’s even finished.

“Well, that was a long time ago.”

He’d gotten rid of the stupid suits and ties around the same time he’d gotten rid of his virginity, and he hasn’t looked back since.

“Dude, I’m not saying you ever knew how to _tie_ one. Just that you wore ‘em anyway.”

Cas swallows, fists clenched around either end of the tie, and takes a deep breath.

Dean’s right. Cas never quite got the hang of tying a tie — but he never really tried, either.

Why would he, when if he continued to find new and creative ways to utterly mangle the knot, Dean would fix it for him?

Cas can’t even remember all the mornings he’d sit carefully in his chair, trying desperately not to reveal himself while Dean perched right on top of his desk and leaned down to adjust whatever sartorial travesty Cas had managed to conjure. Cas would deliberately distract him with talk of school, asking study questions or passing along some mildly interesting gossip, all in hopes that Dean wouldn’t notice anything strange about the situation.

And if it made him linger a little longer, deft fingers pulling at the fabric and brushing along Cas’s jaw as he worked — well, Cas didn’t mind that either.

Cas sighs, gently pushing back his thoughts.

There’s no point, anymore.

“I don’t really _need_ to wear one, right?”

Dean sits up, shifting until his legs dangle over the bedside.

“C’mere,” he says, gesturing Cas toward him, and Cas is surprised to realize he was hoping for this.

His sub-conscious is a sneaky bastard.

But why is _Dean_ playing along?

He stares at him for a beat, and then crosses the distance before either of them can change their minds.

Once he’s there, Dean wraps his hands around both ends of the tie and tugs, slightly drawing Cas forward.

“Lean down.”

Cas doesn’t love his tone.

“Stand up,” he counters.

Dean just looks at him, and Cas tries to look back, to let him know he won’t be yanked around — but they’re close and he can feel the warmth of Dean’s hand between them, and it’s almost twenty years too late for Cas to be deciding he won’t let Dean yank him around.

He bends.

Dean’s just as good at tie-tying as Cas remembers (not that he was ever any great judge), and with his face not so many inches away from Cas’s, it’s hard not to stare. It’s even harder to remember why he’s not supposed to.

Dean’s changed a lot since the last time he fixed Cas’s tie for him. A completely fair comparison is beyond him — it used to be Dean, several inches higher, looking down at Cas while Cas craned his neck and pretended his eye contact was purely motivated by conversation — but Dean’s certainly different. Cas knows the smoothness of adolescence has taken on its share of faint, tiny lines, but he’s had the pleasure of being there to watch them settle in Dean’s face, to know what aspects of who Dean is put them there, and now they’re just a part of him. Dean’s jaw and cheekbones are ridiculous, of course; they already were, by senior year, but his features seem to sharpen by the day, and baby-fat Cas didn’t realize was still there is almost entirely fled.

The eyes are the same, though. The same golden green, the same sweeping lashes, the same wonderful shape, so often enhanced by expression. An overwhelming fondness spreads through him, beginning as a lump in his throat and ending as a tingling in his fingertips, which have always had a poor understanding of why they couldn’t just touch.

He keeps his face carefully blank.

A moment later, full lips tug into a smirk — the very same lips Cas is in the middle of considering with hawk-like focus — and he knows a moment of terror.

But if Dean knew what Cas was thinking, he wouldn’t find it funny; he must be entertained by something else.

“What?” Cas asks, eyes narrowed.

“Nothin’. Your dentist must be terrified of you.”

Cas cocks his head, confused, and decides it’s better not to ask. A moment later, Dean gives the tie one last tug and pats Cas’s chest.

“Thank you,” Cas says, straightening up and trying not to chase the sensation.

“Sure.”

Dean doesn’t get up, though. It would probably help if Cas stepped back to give him space, but when Dean just splays his hands on the bed, leaning back and just — _looking_ at him, Cas forgets.

All he can do is look back.

“Well,” Dean says eventually, finally breaking eye contact. “You ready to go?”

No. No, Cas wants Dean to look at him again, wants to study Dean’s face until he understands a moment he’s probably a fool to think had any particular significance, and then he wants to push Dean all the way back on the bed and ask him to undo his recent handiwork.

“Yes.” With a nod, Cas backs away. “Let me get my coat.”

He leaves the bedroom, not daring to see if Dean follows.

Cas’s doubts were justified, as it turns out.

Dean takes him to a very nice restaurant.

And Cas is aware that they are pretending to date — but they are also Dean and Castiel, and why the _hell_ would he think it was anything but an exercise in frustration for the two of them to try fine dining together?

The hostess leads them to a tiny room, which Cas isn’t sure why the architect bothered to include, and before he’s even sitting down, he hates it.

The doorway is framed by overbearing velvet curtains, and the wallpaper is _burgundy,_ of all things. Cas is pretty sure it’s textured, too, if the barely-there shadows cast by the single candle in the center of each table are anything to go by.

Only once they’re seated and the hostess has left does Cas realize they’re alone.

“What is this place?” he mutters, avoiding Dean’s gaze and trying not to do anything stupid, like acknowledge how handsome Dean looks, so handsome that if they really _were_ dating, Cas would probably chance his odds of the room staying empty.

“This place,” Dean says, “Is a classy restaurant.”

“I see that.” Cas is not impressed.

“No, no, buddy; you gotta know this when you get a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Whatever. There are gonna be times, like significant dates, or if you’re in the doghouse or whatever, or if you’re celebrating something—”

“I believe the common phrase is ‘special occasions.’”

Dean snaps his fingers.

“Yes. Special occasions, man. On special occasions, you do this.”

Cas is still unimpressed; he’s seen this in movies, heard about it secondhand from friends in relationships, and at no point has it ever made sense to him.

“Make them wear uncomfortable clothing while you awkwardly consume an overpriced meal?”

And if Cas is also a little anxious and uncomfortable because he’s never been to a place like this in his life, that’s irrelevant to his point.

“No. You go out of your way. You acknowledge the — the ‘specialness’ of the special occasion, so they know you care about it. See, you gotta do something different, something nicer than whatever you usually do, to make it memorable. It’s like doubling down on the specialness. And it also — rekindles the romance. Makes ‘em focus on how — you know. How they feel about you. And vice versa.”

“So it’s a manipulative tactic.” This is one of the reasons Cas doesn’t date.

Of course, Dean is the other eight hundred, so perhaps Cas is not really one to talk.

Dean gives him a frown, but then it fades, replaced by a thoughtful look.

“Well. I mean. Yeah. Most things are. It’s called human social interaction, and it’s not always a bad thing. Now shut up and look at the menu.”

Their grinning, bright-eyed server arrives just as he finishes speaking.

“Good evening, gentleman. I’m Becky, and I’m so pleased to be your server tonight.”

“Thank you, Becky,” Dean says, though he sounds a little stilted.

“What are your names?”

Dean doesn’t answer, which Cas thinks is rude — Becky seems to be doing her best at hospitality — so Cas answers for both of them.

“I’m Castiel, and that’s Dean.”

She clutches her tablet to her chest.

“Dean and Castiel,” she repeats happily, and the way she says it is both unsettlingly close to a squeal and also annoying, because Cas distinctly remembers saying his name first. “And how long have you been married? Oh, my god, is this your anniversary?”

This time, Dean answers.

By _laughing._

“God, no, like I would marry him. Can you imagine, buddy?”

Cas is sure Becky, given her line of work, has seen a lot of bizarre and terrible things, is probably utterly immune to awkwardness and hopefully past the point of being judgmental, but it’s still — he still—

His cheeks feel over-warm while his chest feels cold and he suddenly just really, really wants to go home.

Dean clears his throat.

“I mean, he’d probably kill me within a week. I’m barely housetrained.”

The words hardly register. _Like I would marry him_ loops through Cas’s brain, an ugly reminder that the _only_ reason Dean is even sitting here with him right now is because he wants to win this stupid bet. That he’s probably _counting_ the days until it’s over and he won’t have to see or hear Cas every fucking day anymore.

“Right.” Becky purses her lips, considerably cooler, now. Cas has no doubt he’s well and truly blushing. “Well, _Dean_. What can I get you?”

Dean orders a steak, of course, because he’s an obnoxious, walking cliché.

“And Castiel?” Both her eyes and voice are warmer when she speaks to him, and while he wants to be appreciative, he mostly just feels humiliated. He is all dressed up and on a date with the only person he’s ever loved, in a nice, expensive restaurant, and yet his server is giving him soft words and gentle looks because she feels _sorry_ for him.

Because the only person he’s ever loved also happens to be a giant _asshole._

He mumbles out an order for the first chicken salad he sees on the menu and breathes a sigh of relief when she’s gone.

Of course, things only get worse. It quickly becomes apparent that Dean knows he fucked up and, in typical Dean fashion, decides to handle it by becoming churlish and irritable as well. They sit in silence, scowling at the table until Becky brings them their food.

The salad is very good, but Cas doesn’t have much of an appetite, and he picks at his food while Dean savagely tears into his steak across the table.

It’s irrational how upset he is, how he’s getting more upset with each minute that passes, but he can’t seem to stop himself. He’s stuck alone with Dean in this strange, stuffy room, and he’s angry at Dean and Dean seems to be angry at him and they’re not speaking and he feels claustrophobic and miserable and on top of everything else, his suit is itchy.

He tugs at the sleeves, hoping Dean’s atrocious manners will mean they can leave sooner.

“Stop that.”

Cas looks up, narrowing his eyes.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“’Don’t tell me what to do’? Christ, are you five?”

 _Ridiculous,_ coming from Dean.

“This is boring. Why are we doing this?”

“God, I told you, okay? If you wanna be in a relationship, you gotta do shit like this.” Dean offers him an ugly little half-smile. “Of course, if you’re ready to agree you _aren’t_ cut out for it, then . . .”

He’s so fucking full of it.

“No. And I think you’re lying. I think this is what you _think_ people in relationships have to do.”

And any other time (maybe), Cas would just be sad that Dean is the kind of person who tries so hard to meet other people’s standards, even if it’s not what he wants or it flat-out _hurts_ him.

Not tonight, though. Tonight, all Cas’s sadness is reserved for himself, so Dean can just fuck off for a while.

He can tell by the look in Dean’s eyes that he knows Cas is right.

He can also tell that it pisses him off.

“Maybe, but a hell of a lot of other people think so, too, so it might as well be!”

“I disagree.” Cas lifts his chin. “I think people in relationships should do whatever makes them happy. That’s the point of being in a relationship, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and I’m tellin’ you, Cas, this is what makes people happy, so buck up!”

“Does it make _you_ happy?”

Dean sets his fork on the plate, clearly agitated at how easily Cas is debunking the merits of something he’s probably forced himself to suffer through countless times.

“Well — I — no? But you have to make sacrifices for a relationship.”

Cas pulls a face. Ah, yes. Dean is all about _sacrifices,_ isn’t he?

“You know what, Dean? Right now you’re in a relationship with me.”

“Fake relationship.”

Cas ignores him.

“And this? Is not making me happy. So, since neither of us are happy, I think we should do something at least _one_ of us wants to do.”

“Yeah, well, what I really want right now is a fuckin’ drink. Fake or not, this is starting to feel _just like_ a real relationship.”

Twenty minutes ago, on the heels of the _like I would marry him_ comment, this might have tipped Cas over into wanting-to-cry territory. At this point, however, it’s just annoying.

He rolls his eyes.

“Fine. Let’s go to a bar. It still has to be better than this.”

Dean’s not happy about it — _join the fucking club —_ but Cas goaded him for a reason; Dean will never back down from a challenge, and Cas has wanted out of here since they pulled into the parking lot.

“Fine then. Let’s go.”

The joke’s on him, as it turns out.

They haven’t been in the bar five fucking minutes before Dean finds a girl.

Obviously desperate to get away from Cas, Dean doesn’t even bother sitting down at the table before he excuses himself to ‘get drinks,’ which is apparently now code for ‘spend ten minutes flirting with the first pretty face I meet.’

Not that Cas is bitter, or anything. He just really wants that drink.

Given that he doesn’t have it, he has nothing better to do than sit and observe the opening act of Dean’s pickup routine; the brunette at the bar is a suspiciously good fit for Dean’s type, which is ‘hot’ and an eclectic blend of smoldering confidence and awkward nerdiness.

She shifts in her stool, grinning playfully at Dean, and that’s when Cas sees the logo on her shirt.

_Dr. Sexy._

If he didn’t know better, he’d assume she was a plant.

The conversation drags on and on, well after a tray of drinks gets put in front of Dean, and the brunette is all smiles and earnest eyes and emphatic hand gestures and Cas is hard-pressed to say which one of them he hates more, because Dean is giving as good as he gets.

And even though Cas ditched the suit jacket before they came in, he’s _still itchy._

With perverse satisfaction, he yanks at the knot at his throat, aggressively jerking the tie free and tossing it aside.

And by the time Dean _finally_ comes back to the table, Cas is fuming enough that he seriously considers throwing the shot in Dean’s face rather than drinking it.

He sits, stiff-backed in the booth, and hopes his ire is not lost on Dean.

“Hey, man,” Dean says, so cautiously Cas is agreeably certain it isn’t. He nudges Cas’s shots in front of him, and casually tips back one of his own. “How’s it going?”

“I’m enjoying myself immensely,” Cas returns flatly, and just in case Dean _isn’t_ getting it, ruthlessly downs all three shots in record time.

“O-kay,” Dean says under his breath, and rather than make any attempt at placation — which, why would he? Dean doesn’t fucking care — he starts drinking faster.

Cas knows a moment’s doubt — Dean drinking casually, for fun, is one thing, but watching Dean mainline hard liquor in direct response to _anger_ unsettles Cas in deep, familiar ways — but it’s too late, really. This is the turn the evening has taken, and it cannot be reversed.

Cas stares hard, and eventually Dean looks away.

“What happened to your tie?”

“It’s a bar. I don’t need to wear a tie to a _bar._ You’re the one who taught me that.” Cas remembers sneaking out to the floor at the Roadhouse, well before they were allowed to be there. He remembers Dean pulling him aside and tugging the knot free. _Relax._ Cas protested that he was, even as his heart pounded.

“Yeah, but — I look like a douche, now.”

Cas turns his eyes skyward.

“Then take it off.”

He regrets saying it almost immediately. Dean’s eyes are like gritty chunks of jade in the dim bar light, boring into Cas’s as his fingers work the knot in what must be the most suggestive way conceivable. The whole thing is meant to be a challenge, but it feels more like a promise.

For the second time this evening, all Cas wants to do is leave, but this time it’s so they can both go home and he can insist Dean make good on it.

“Oh,” he murmurs. “That’s interesting.”

“What?” Dean demands, pupils dark from lack of light.

And Cas, spiteful with wanting, leans forward until he can nearly feel the warmth from Dean’s angry breaths.

“You still look like a douche.”

Dean stares, open-mouthed, and Cas relaxes back with a smug grin.

“More drinks?” he asks, with as much bite as he can manage.

Without bothering to respond, Dean stalks off to the bar.

Predictably, he starts chatting up the brunette as soon as he gets there.

“God, you’ve got pretty eyes,” Gary murmurs, swaying closer. The guy’s own golden brown ones are blown dark with unmistakable lust, a look Cas has been on the receiving end of so many times he’s hard-pressed to feel that flattered by it.

It doesn’t help that despite a striking resemblance to Chris Evans, Gary’s somehow . . . not quite right. Cas lets his eyes wander over that handsome face, slow and assessing, and finds that the eyes aren’t bright enough, are too far apart, that there’s a little too much roundness to his cheeks and softness to his jaw. His nose is fine, straight across the bridge and just dipping down at the tip, but some part of Cas still hates it.

His leather jacket smells like cigarettes and something else, something strange and synthetic, and Cas decides that’s going to be the first thing to go.

Gary arches a brow, questioning.

“You’ve got pretty everything,” Cas answers, pitching his voice low and widening his knees on the bar stool, inviting Gary to step a little closer. He’s not quite right, for whatever reason, but he’ll do.

Across the bar, the brunette in the _Dr. Sexy_ t-shirt slams both palms on the bartop, causing her drink to rattle, and nods vigorously at something Dean is saying.

Cas has the fleeting thought that _maybe,_ instead of taunting Dean when he came back to the table, he should have tried to _distract_ him, but he dismisses it almost immediately. Dean’s been an ass all evening — Cas isn’t sure why he expected anything else — and by the third time Dean went to talk to the girl (after Cas absolutely _crushed_ him in a game of darts), Cas had a pretty good idea of where the evening would go.

In any case, he can start looking for a new place to live tomorrow. Tonight, Dean drove and will probably fuck some vapid fangirl in the back seat of the Impala, less than a hundred feet away from where Cas is sitting _at this very moment_ , and Cas—

Well, Cas isn’t going to just fucking sit and _wait._

A cursory visit to the lone, unisex bathroom yielded almost suspiciously promising results, and even as Gary grins crookedly down at him, Cas is already strategizing how best to make use of it.

The other patrons probably won’t like the wait, but Cas will at least make sure they clean up when they’re done.

“How would you know?” Gary drawls, eyes twinkling. Somebody out there, somebody who is not Cas, probably loves it when Gary’s eyes twinkle while he smiles his vaguely goofy smile. “You haven’t seen everything. Yet.”

Cas tilts his head back and laughs, throwing Gary a coy, calculating look when he’s done.

“That sounds like an invitation,” he murmurs, and stands, bringing their faces within inches of one another.

Gary bites his lip, and Cas knows it’s time.

“Well, it was supposed to.”

He smirks, wrapping a hand around one of Gary’s wrists and tugging.

“Follow me?”

Gary trips over the stool in his haste.

By the time they get there, he’s a step ahead of Cas, pivoting and pressing back against the door, reaching out to pull Cas in for a kiss. His hand is bizarrely soft where it touches Cas’s cheek, absent of much in the way of callouses, but that’s fine; Cas doesn’t really have any preferences about these things.

He’s wondering how long he needs to drag this out — that is, how long he _can_ drag this out — before Dean will be done showing _his_ new friend a good time, so he and Cas can drive home in stilted silence and not talk about how they maybe should have seen this coming, when a chill goes up his spine.

Gary’s mouth is no more than inch away at this point — his lips are too thin, Cas thinks, strangely disappointed — and Cas goes still, head turning on instinct.

It’s like a bucket of cold water somehow gets dumped over his insides, washing away all the warmth of the liquor as it soaks him.

So. Not in the Impala, then. At least Cas won’t have to worry about leaving the window open.

Dean and the brunette are standing a few feet away, their intended destination obvious by the way the brunette is staring at Cas and Gary, vaguely crestfallen. Cas’s gaze snaps back to Dean, and — and it’s baffling, because he _knew_ this was going to happen, but seeing the guilt flicker across Dean’s face as the girl next to him — _right_ next to him, so close their shoulders brush — turns and asks him something just sets off some incendiary chain reaction across Cas’s nerves.

He stares at Dean, and Dean glowers back, shoulders tense.

“What the _hell,_ Cas?” he demands, which is fucking _rich,_ when he _started_ it, when neither of them would be here if Dean could just fucking stow his baggage for five goddamn seconds and say he was _sorry —_ or for that matter, resist the impulse to start flirting with every reasonably attractive human-shaped thing that crosses his path.

“What the hell, indeed, _Dean._ ” Cas advances on him, rage lighting up every dark, unhappy corner of his body. “Fancy meeting you here! I see you made a _friend_!”

A reminder, just in case he forgot this is _all his fault._

Dean doesn’t see it that way.

“Dude, you get that you have no leg to stand on here, right? You were _just_ about to hook up with some rando in a bathroom.”

Cas is not ashamed, he is not, because Dean started it and would have finished it, no matter what Cas did, and only someone truly stupid and pathetic would have just sat idly in a corner while Dean went off to have his fun.

His face heats with embarrassment all the same.

“I was not! Gary . . . needed help getting a stain out.” Which is not technically a lie; it is entirely probable that, some undetermined amount of time from now, Gary _would_ have needed assistance with that.

Dean just snorts, has the nerve to look _disgusted,_ like he can read Cas’s mind _._

“I think you mean he needed help getting a stain _in,_ don’t you?” he sneers, and maybe he can.

Cas clenches his fists, glaring.

“Since you’re here at the bathroom, _rando_ in tow, you have no room to talk, Dean.”

“Hey!” Dean looks back at the girl, who’s watching with wide eyes, and looks _concerned_ , of all things _._ Cas wants to set something on fire. “Katya’s not a rando! She knows her _Dr. Sexy_. And I read some drabbles she wrote on her phone while we were at the bar, she’s fuckin’ awesome!”

And then a small movement south of his line of vision draws Cas’s eye. He stares at where their hands are joined, fingers linked together.

Fury rushes through him and then blinks out, leaving an ashen sort of nothingness behind.

“We’re going home,” he says coldly. Dean stiffens.

“How do you figure? ‘Cause I drove and—”

“ _We’re going home._ ” Another step forward, and then Cas has a hand on Dean’s shoulder, gripping him tight and forcibly separating him from the girl.

“What the _fuck,_ Cas — get _off_ of me—”

Cas ignores him. They’re leaving, right the fuck now. There will be no _Dr. Sexy_ fans or ultimately disappointing superhero lookalikes for either one of them tonight.

He pulls Dean toward the exit, but all he can see is one small, pretty hand, threaded through Dean’s; all he can hear is Dean’s vehement defense of her, nothing vague or empty about it, and certainly more impassioned than anything Dean’s mustered up for Cas in almost a decade, and _of fucking course_ they would end up at a dinky little bar on date night and Dean would meet someone he actually _liked._

Certainly, someone he could like a lot better than _Cas._

“Dean!” he hears her call, and tries to pick up the pace. There’s a faint rustling sound, and after a moment, Dean speaks, stumbling along after him.

“I’m sorry,” Cas hears him say, sounding _infuriatingly_ sad, and then — “He’s not my real boyfrie— _ah!_ ”

Cas digs his fingers in, as hard as he can.

“It’s okay, I figure I’m missing something here,” the girl says. “Maybe I’ll see you again.”

Not if Cas has anything to say about it. He jerks Dean to the side, hard and unnecessary, and knows a strange combination of guilt and satisfaction when Dean almost falls.

“Sorry,” Cas says, and assures himself he’s not.

Only once they’re outside does Cas finally let go, blood still rushing in his ears as his heart drums out an intense, painful rhythm. Neither of them are in any condition to drive, and he pulls out his phone to call a cab.

They wait in silence, and Cas wishes they’d gone mini-golfing again instead.

At least when he lost in mini-golf, he didn’t lose anything important.

Understandably, Pamela’s not impressed.

“So let me get this straight,” she says, looking between them. It takes her longer than it should; they’re both plastered against either side of the sofa like there’s a live grenade in the middle. “You went out on a date. And somehow the night progressed in such a way that you both ended up cheating on each other.”

“Well, technically, we didn’t ch—”

“You would have, if you hadn’t run into one another at the rendezvous point.”

Neither of them have the nerve to try and argue.

“Does either of you want to tell me how that happened?”

Dean just sets his jaw, staring grimly ahead, and Cas barely holds back a sigh.

“Dean took me on a shitty date and then ignored me in favor of hooking up with the first pretty face he saw. Left to my own devices, I did the same. There’s not a lot to tell.”

“Uh, except you’re telling it _wrong,”_ Dean objects, because of _course_ he has something to say, now that it involves an opportunity to argue with Cas. “I tried to take Cas here on a nice, romantic dinner date, he bitched about the venue and the whole plan, and so we went to a bar. And since he couldn’t stop taking cheap shots at me, I naturally went to talk to somebody who doesn’t fucking _hate_ me. And yeah, maybe I got a little carried away, but _see. Above._ ”

Cas tenses with every word, because Dean’s _lying._ That isn’t what happened, not at all.

_Like I would marry him._

Cas is not the one whose _hate_ is a problem, here.

Pamela just lets out a sigh, and rests her fingers against the bridge of her nose.

“Alright.” She breathes in. “Alright.”

And then she’s silent.

“So — so what?” Dean finally asks. “Where does that leave us, then?”

Pamela gazes at the wall, sharp and calculating.

“Castiel,” she says, startling him. “May I ask — why did you go home?”

“What?” He squints, unsure how it’s relevant.

“Well — didn’t you both violate one of the primary terms of your bet?”

And suddenly he knows _exactly_ what she’s asking.

“Yes,” he says shortly. He fixes her with a hard stare — she’s not intimidated — well-aware that Dean is listening with curious ears and depending on how this goes, today might be the day he finally figures it out.

“So . . . technically, this session would be to declare a winner. Whatever either of you did for the rest of that night shouldn’t have mattered.”

Cas hates her, in this moment, and does his best to show it in his eyes.

And then Dean _laughs._

“Ha! Oh, my god, you didn’t realize, did you? Dumbass!”

Cas looks at him, not for the first time marveling at how someone so intelligent can be so fucking _obtuse._

“Anyway,” Pamela continues, side-eyeing Dean a little. “So — what I’d like to know, then, is why you decided to go home, and why you made Dean go with you.”

Thankfully, Cas doesn’t even have to try and invent a convincing lie for that.

“Because he wanted to ruin my night,” Dean says immediately, and Pamela looks frustrated, sighing deeply.

“Castiel?”

He feigns a moment of deep, earnest thought — and then nods.

“Because I wanted to ruin Dean’s night.”

“Told you.” Again, Cas marvels at how unflappably sure of himself and his own idiocy Dean manages to be.

Pamela, on the other hand, isn’t buying it.

“Right. Of course.” She pushes a hand through her hair and scratches something out on her notepad. “Well, then; given that you both broke the same rule — in my professional opinion, the bet’s still on. If you want it to be.”

Cas stills. He wasn’t expecting that.

He ruthlessly smothers the hope that sparks into existence at her words; Dean didn’t pick up that girl so he could get laid. Dean picked up that girl, knowing it would mean the end of the bet and his probable loss, because he was _sick_ and _tired_ of Cas and he couldn’t stand the thought of having to endure one more day putting up with him. There’s no way in hell he would agree to—

“I think I can stick around ‘til I finally win,” Dean says, unbothered.

Cas rolls his eyes in an effort not to let everything he’s feeling show on his face.

“You’re not going to win, Dean,” he says calmly, heart sprinting in delighted circles. Doubtless, they will crash and burn by their next appointment, but for now — “And if you do, all it proves is that you _can_ be committed — to your _ego._ ”

“Shut up, Cas,” Dean retorts, good-natured, and if Cas didn’t know any better, he’d think Dean was relieved, too.

“Alright, that sounds like a ‘yes’ from all parties,” Pamela interjects. The smile that takes her face is sharp, a small threat around the edges. “In that case, we’re not done here,”

“Huh?” Dean blinks at her, mouth slack in bewilderment. It’s unsettlingly — cute.

“You both nearly broke the cardinal rule. We need to talk about why that happened.”

“We know why it happened, Cas was bein’ a bitch at dinner, and everything I did just made it worse.”

Dean’s suddenly not cute at all.

“Exactly, Dean; _everything you did_ made it worse,” he grits out.

“The hell do you mean?”

Dean’s indignant, but worse than that, he seems genuinely _confused._

Cas turns away, upset. How is he even supposed to explain?

“Castiel?” Pamela says, gentle but expectant. He can’t stop himself from hunching in a little. Even if he _can_ figure out how to explain it, Dean’s just going to dismiss it.

The pen settles against the clipboard. She’s waiting.

“I mean that Dean has to flirt with everything that moves,” he blurts out, and then wants to kick himself. Of all the things to lead with — of all the ways to _say_ it—

“ _I_ have to — _me_? Dude, at least I don’t _fuck_ everything that m—”

Pamela interrupts him, which is probably good; as it is, it’s taking everything in him not to leap across the sofa and start beating his best friend to death with a lamp.

“Explain, Castiel.”

He takes a calming breath.

“I admit that — picking up Gary was a . . . poor choice. _But,_ Dean started it.”

“And how exactly did I start it? Because from where _I_ was sitting, you were determined to—”

“Dean. Be advised that you lose a _huge_ number of points every time you interrupt your partner.”

Pamela’s tone makes it clear she’s not fucking around.

Dean slouches, and the pout on his face looks the same as it did fifteen years ago.

Pamela lifts her hand for Cas to continue.

“Dean began the evening by embarrassing me in front of the server — at a restaurant that was not to either one of our tastes — and when I pointed out that our presence there was, well, _stupid,_ he sarcastically indicated he’d like a drink. So we went to a bar.”

“I see. May I ask how he embarrassed you?”

The moment returns, with unwelcome clarity, and Cas can’t stop his face from heating.

_Like I would marry him._

No, Dean would _never_ marry Cas. Dean doesn’t think Cas is good enough for _anyone_ to want anything permanent with.

“The server assumed that — that we were married. And Dean laughed, and made it clear he found the prospect of being married to me ridiculous.” He looks away, and tells himself that Pamela would have already guessed that, that Becky the Waitress doesn’t matter, and what’s more, Cas already knew it, too.

_Like I would marry him._

It doesn’t help.

“Which, it certainly is, but the server is unfamiliar with us and our relationship,” he concludes numbly.

“Dean. You understand how, on a date, that was a ‘no,’ right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, doc, I got that. And I’m—” he pauses. “Regretting sayin’ that. It just — came out wrong. But that’s no excuse to punish me for it for the rest of the night.”

“I stopped punishing you for that as soon as we made it to the bar, Dean,” he protests, and he thinks it’s mostly true. The bar was neutral ground, the type of place he and Dean had hung out at countless times, and he doesn’t kid himself that they hadn’t been in the middle of a fight half those times. They were supposed to sit at the table and drink and play bar games and settle the fuck down until they forgot why they were angry in the first place.

Fuck Dean’s bizarre obsession with _Dr. Sexy_.

“Then what the hell do you call the _rest of the night_?”

Cas looks back to Pamela, shaking his head.

“So after we get to the bar, Dean storms off to get drinks—”

“I did not _storm off,_ Cas, I was being a good boyfriend!”

“—and doesn’t come back for over ten minutes.”

The minute recoil is gratifying.

“I take it there wasn’t a line?”

“Well, a little—”

“No,” Cas states, before Dean can try and talk his way out of this like Cas is the crazy one. “No, but there _was_ a girl.”

“ _Jesus,_ Cas, I did have to wait a _little,_ and we were just chatting to pass the time! It would have been rude to interrupt the conversation, I did the best I could!”

“You _struck up_ the conversation, Dean; I may have been too far away to hear, but I had eyes. You were flirting. And I understand that you can’t help yourself — and I don’t care, either way—“ _lie_ “—but I wasn’t going to sit alone in a bar for a mandatory date while you ignored me.”

“I was gone for _ten minutes,_ Cas!”

“The _first time_!”

“Yeah, and then I left again, to _get away from you_!”

 _I knew that,_ Cas tells himself, and faces forward, mouth shut tight because there’s no fucking point in arguing with him. There never is.

Pamela inhales deeply, taking her time, and it seems like it takes her a full ten seconds to let it back out.

“Okay, then. Mm. Alright.” There’s a long pause, and Cas notes, with great satisfaction, Dean shifting uncomfortably across the sofa. “Dean — do you understand what you did wrong?”

Cas listens with interest, and Dean huffs.

“Yes, fine, I said something dickish in front of Becky, but seriously, that didn’t warrant—”

“That’s not it, Dean. Castiel says he was ready to move past that once you got to the bar, and I’m inclined to believe him.”

“I’m not gonna apologize for being friendly with a stranger.”

She cocks her head.

“That you were prepared to have sexual intercourse with that stranger a few hours later lends some credibility to Castiel’s accusation of flirting,” and fucking _thank you._

“Why are you _picking_ on me?”

“I’m not, Dean, I promise. I’m trying to help you. Remember what the goal is, here; proving that you are well-equipped to be part of a successful relationship. And whether you do so or not, I would like you to leave my office for the last time with a better understanding of how to do that.”

“Okay? What am I supposed to be getting here?”

“Well — let me ask you this. Suppose you have a couple; Person A has a habit of spitting when walking outside, and Person B finds this habit gross. Now, the couple does not want to break up. What’s a reasonable course of action?”

“Uh.” Dean considers this. “Well. If I’m the spitter, I’d probably just stop spitting. S’just not worth fighting over. And if I’m the person who’s grossed out, I’d probably get used to it.”

Which is just — not even — wow. If Dean were the spitter, he’d probably tell the other person to mind their own damn business, and if he were the person who didn’t like it, he’d never stop nagging.

But then, maybe that’s only if the other person were _Cas._

“It’s amusing how accommodating you imagine yourself to be,” he says anyway, getting a warning look from Pamela for his trouble. He merely shrugs.

“There’s no right answer, but there’s a lesson in here for you both. When you’re in a relationship — when you’re committed to a relationship — you want to make your partner happy and comfortable. Sometimes that means things you don’t have a problem with, you respect that your partner does, and sometimes it means you just let go of things that do bother you. A relationship ends when no compromise can be reached, or when too many are necessary, or when the balance of them is too unequal. In your case, you don’t want the relationship to end; you want to find a solution.

“So,” she continues. “Castiel has now made it clear that he’s bothered by how flirtatious you are.”

And he definitely is, but he thought he was careful not to actually say that.

“I — don’t think that’s what I said,” he tries, frowning. Fortunately, Dean’s preoccupied with his own indignation.

“Yeah, his problem was basically that he was _bored_. And I’m not . . . look, I like people, okay? I like talking to people, I like making other people feel good, I like it when they make me feel good. My flirting generally doesn’t mean anything.”

 _It did the other night,_ Cas wants to say, but refrains.

“But it’s not about whether spitting outside is wrong, or whether flirting is wrong, Dean; it’s about your partner’s comfort. You did something that bothered Cas, and your solution was to be angry at him for being bothered.”

“So, what, you’re saying this is all my fault?”

“No, I am not. In fact, I think we’ve already established this was both your faults. Dean, you should have asked Castiel what was bothering him, and tried to fix it, if it was reasonable to do so. Instead, you left him by himself. That’s not good date behavior or good partner behavior. That’s _childish_ behavior.”

“It’s not like he was much better,” Dean argues, and to Cas’s dismay, she nods.

“You’re right. Castiel, you should have communicated to Dean what you were upset about; he can’t read minds, and he can’t fix what he doesn’t understand. It sounds like you did your best to further antagonize him. At the very least, you should have asked to leave sooner. From Dean’s perspective, he put some thought and planning into a date for the two of you, you told him it was stupid, and all you _did_ manage to communicate to him was that his presence was only making you angry. He may have been wrong to do so, but I also understand why he left you alone.”

Cas’s frown deepens.

“So, our time’s about up, but this week, I want you to work on that. You both hurt each other—” she lifts a discouraging hand, clearly sensing dissent. “Fine, you both upset each other. Spend the week communicating that you’re sorry, that you care about the other person’s comfort and well-being. You had settled into a nice rhythm; find it again, but make it better. Try to be more conscious of one another’s needs, and just as importantly, _talk_ about your own. Okay?”

“Okay,” Dean says.

Cas, though — all he can manage is a small nod, not quite able to suppress a sigh.

It’s going to be a long week.

Cas is . . . not great at communicating pretty much _any_ of the things Pamela just asked for.

In fact, Cas isn’t great at communicating, in general — what few words he can find are never quite right — and he’s especially deficient when it comes to communicating things to _Dean_.

It wasn’t _always_ that way; there were times, much simpler times, when they were young and they seemed to understand each other better than anyone. In some ways, they still do.

But mostly, they just — don’t. And while the blame might, in an abstract sense, lie at Dean’s door — really, it came down to Cas. Cas, who had feelings he shouldn’t.

Cas, who couldn’t stop, no matter how hard he tried.

Anna left for a study-abroad program in Europe three weeks before Cas turned fifteen, and even though she’d been renting on campus for a year by that point, it was still devastating.

Cas could hop on a bus and go see her any time he wanted (for the most part); but _London_? He couldn’t even call very easily, and sure, that was what e-mail was for, but — but she would be _gone._

He sulked for weeks leading up to her departure, despite all of Dean’s efforts to distract or console him, and when it came time to watch her bus leave the station, he was barely holding back tears.

“Don’t cry, Cas,” she told him, fingers ghosting across his cheek. “I’ll be back.”

“You’ll be so far away,” he pointed out, mournful. She nodded.

“Yes. But not completely out of reach. And besides,” she added, trying a smile. Cas thought her eyes looked a little wet, too. “You have Dean.”

And he did — he wasn’t sure what he’d do if he _didn’t —_ but Anna was his sister, his only family that cared.

The bus started boarding, and after a quick, tight hug, his sister left.

“You okay?” Dean asked quietly, and Cas shook his head.

“No,” he sniffed, miserable. “That’s the only person in the world who loves me.”

Certainly, Cas could never remember anyone else saying so.

But Dean — Dean just gaped at him.

“You — that’s—” he stuttered out, eyes indignant and color high.

“What?”

“ _Shut up,_ ” Dean grumbled, and took a shaky breath, mouth pressed into a thin line. “Just — gimme a second.”

Cas waited, grief momentarily abated in favor of curiosity.

“I — you know that — _obviously,_ ” Dean finally said, waving his arms wildly.

Cas just tilted his head, and Dean grimaced, jaw working.

“I love you, too!” he eventually snapped, and then stormed away to Bobby’s car, muttering angrily to himself.

But he still held Cas’s hand the whole way home while Cas cried, and didn’t complain once.

Later that night, once Cas had calmed down and Dean had wordlessly drawn him in for one of those rare, whole-body snuggles they were _definitely_ too old for, Cas thought about it — _I love you, too! —_ wide awake and heart pounding in a way that seemed to have little to do with his anxiety over Anna’s leaving.

Cas had known he'd loved Dean for years, by then.

But he hadn’t really ever spared a thought for _how._

And lying there in the dark, cheek pressed to the spot right over Dean’s heart while Dean drifted away, sleepy and unaware, Cas found an answer for a question he’d never known to ask.

 _Oh,_ he thought, startled and somewhat in awe — and for the first time in their friendship, Cas suddenly had a secret to keep from Dean.

It hurts, sometimes, that Dean never figured it out, anyway.

Anyway, despite Pamela’s instructions, Cas doesn’t think he can bring himself to do anything different. His attitude toward Dean is one carefully developed over _years,_ with self-preservation as its central goal. He can’t just start doing things differently _,_ all of the sudden; not without risking everything.

_Communicate that you’re sorry._

It’s hard to be sorry when Dean is not, and even if Dean musters some contrition over this most recent clusterfuck, it doesn’t change the fact that Cas deliberately trained himself to be utterly unapologetic where Dean was concerned; otherwise, Dean would currently be pulling his strings while Cas struggled to keep up.

_That you care about the other person’s comfort and well-being._

There’s little Cas cares about more (most of the time) but again, he’s made a point not to show it. With Dean, Cas has learned that he’s effectively all or nothing; when he gives to Dean, the temptation to give _everything_ is insidious and stealthy, and maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, but he resents the idea of doing that when he knows he will get nothing in return.

_Try to be more conscious of one another’s needs, and just as importantly, talk about your own._

And that, most of all, is where Cas has no idea what to do.

He cannot even begin to fathom what Dean needs, even though it’s abundantly clear to Cas that he’s failing to provide it. It’s been that way for years, and while Cas would be eternally grateful to Pamela if Dean somehow learns to just _say_ what he wants from him, he knows that’s not about to happen.

As far as his own needs — Cas is just as lost. He certainly can’t ask Dean for what he _wants;_ and he doesn’t know how to disentangle that want from actual _need._

All he can reasonably say he _needs_ is for Dean to be around, in some capacity, with no sign of leaving for good.

And that has never been a thing Cas could bear to ask for — it was difficult enough for him to _accept,_ in the confines of his own head — and for now, he has that.

Surely, nothing more needs to be said, right?

Either way, he isn’t going to, and he goes to bed that night dreading what’s to come. Any relief he’d felt at their recommitment has mostly fled, because he’s even more confident that it’s not going to last, and when it invariably goes to hell again, it might be even worse.

Dean, for the first time in a long time, surprises him.

Cas slowly ascends from the depths of slumber sometime around seven-thirty, and once he’s been semi-conscious for a couple of minutes, he thinks he knows why.

Dean is _baking._

Cas’s favorite chocolate muffins, by the smell of it.

He stumbles out of the bed, bumping against the hallway walls as he clumsily makes his way to the kitchen, lack of sleep and a bone-deep contempt for mornings making his limbs heavy.

Dean is frozen in front of the coffeemaker, staring at him, but Cas only has eyes for the muffins, cooling on a little wire rack.

Without a word — he’s honestly not capable — he grabs two, manages a solid grip on the cup of coffee Dean just poured, and returns to the bedroom with his prizes.

He half-expects Dean to come bursting in to yell at him, but by some miracle he’s left to enjoy the unexpected boon in peace. By the time he’s polished off both muffins and downed the last dregs of lukewarm coffee, he’s full and content and awake enough to conclude that Dean did it all deliberately.

Cas always loves Dean, doesn’t know how not to, but sometimes he is unbearably fond of him, as well.

Familiar footsteps sound in the hall, softening when they hit bedroom carpet, and Cas can feel Dean’s presence in the room like sun on his skin. He lazily opens one eye, and can’t stop the smile tugging at his mouth at the sight of him. Dean stares back, and if Cas were more awake, he might question that, but he’s not.

“If we were not the people we were,” he begins, voice unable to manage much more than a soft rumble as he turns his face against the pillow stack, “I would hug you.”

Dean’s pillow is at the top, unmistakable in its scent, and it makes a very poor substitute.

“Uh, sure. No problem,” Dean eventually says, and Cas tries to smile again, but he’s already drifting off.

It doesn’t stop at the muffins, and Cas — Cas has no idea what to do with that.

Dean comes home that evening and greets Cas with an offer to handle _all_ the laundry, instead of just his own.

Cas doesn’t like doing laundry, possibly even resents it, although in no universe could he expect to be able to magic his clothes clean, but Dean absolutely _hates_ it. He tends to let it pile up in baskets or on the floor until eventually, he just starts borrowing other people’s clothes.

In light of that, this is . . . remarkable.

“If you don’t mind,” he agrees, hesitant, but not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Dean offers back a very obviously fake grin, but gamely proceeds toward the laundry baskets anyway.

Unsettled, Cas goes back to work.

Two hours later, he’s headed to the bathroom for a shower when Dean stops him.

“Dude, I just did darks,” Dean grouses, pointing to Cas’s pajamas. “I could have put those in with the rest.”

Cas tenses.

“I needed to shower, but I was in the middle of something. And putting on a clean pair wouldn’t solve anything.”

“Yeah, but—” Dean doesn’t finish his sentence, sighing, and Cas uses the opportunity to slink off to the bathroom before anything can escalate.

He’s just turned off the water when there’s a knock at the door.

Cas just stands there for a moment, dripping water. Dean must know this is not a good time.

“Yes?” he finally says.

“Got something for you,” Dean calls through the door.

Cas is not sure what kind of gift Dean thinks he would be prepared to receive, being wet and naked as he is. He steps out onto the mat.

“Perhaps it could wait until I’m dressed?”

“Won’t do you any good then.”

Curiosity wins out, and Cas opens the door an inch, peering through.

Dean grins and shoves something blue at him.

“Just came out of the dryer,” he says, and as soon as Cas realizes it’s a _towel —_ he nimbly snatches it out of Dean’s hand.

“Thank you,” he says, earnest. The towel is downright _hot._

“I think I got some pajamas in there, if you want ‘em,” Dean offers.

“Oh. Yes, please.” He punctuates this with a nod, unsuccessfully fighting a smile. He’s still dripping water everywhere, but in a moment, he’ll be wrapped in the soft, warm blue towel, toasty pajamas soon to follow.

Dean turns away somewhat abruptly, but a few minutes later, he returns as promised.

It’s a good day.

All week, Dean is addictively sweet to him, and though Cas still doesn’t feel safe reciprocating, he tries to at least make it easy on Dean.

That said, their disaster of a date is fresh in his mind, and when he informs Dean they’ll be going to the aquarium for their next one, he can see the objection forming in Dean’s mouth.

Cas levels him with a daring look — he’s guessed, at this point, that Dean is following Pamela’s instructions, even if it’s somewhat excessive — and ultimately, Dean says nothing.

Friday night, Dean drives them to the aquarium; and while Cas was anticipating some suffering on Dean’s part, he wasn’t expecting himself to _love_ it.

He does, though.

Cas has never been to an aquarium, and it’s almost overwhelming. There are so _many_ different kinds of fish, and they walk the winding corridors, the blue glow of the tanks bright and beautiful as their inhabitants move about within.

And then — and then they reach the _sharks,_ and Cas truly is overwhelmed. He grasps blindly for Dean’s arm, for some kind of anchor as he takes them in with wide eyes.

They glide effortlessly through the water, graceful and fearsome and — and -

“Sharks _,_ Dean,” he states urgently, teetering on the balls of his feet in his excitement. “ _Sharks._ ”

Cas doesn’t know how long they spend there, the sharks oblivious and indifferent as they go about their business, and there are not words for how utterly mesmerizing Cas finds them. All the while, Dean waits patiently, and even though Cas is still holding onto him, he doesn’t say a word.

Cas falls asleep on the sofa that night, partway through _Finding Nemo_ , a bag of wonderful treasures from the museum’s gift shop resting at his feet.

He knows he’s propped up against Dean’s side as his lids grow heavy and he drifts away, but he doesn’t fight it. Dean can move him if he wants.

It’s selfish, but he hopes he doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** SPOILERS ***
> 
> References to alcohol as an unhealthy coping mechanism: Dean and Cas get into a tiff at a restaurant. Dean sarcastically states that it's starting to feel like a real relationship and he could really use a drink, the implication being that Cas is the driver for that. Later, at the bar, when the conflict has worsened, Cas pointedly drinks his shots and Dean responds in kind, leaving Cas uncomfortable and reflecting on some anxiety over Dean drinking in response to anger.
> 
> Dean/OFC and Cas/OMC: Dean and Cas are at a bar and fighting; Dean starts flirting with a woman, which exacerbates Cas's upset, and the situation worsens; resigned to this being the end of the bet, Cas makes an effort to pick up a man he meets while Dean is flirting with the woman.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: non-specific references to Dean’s past relationships, non-specific references to Cas’s sexual exploits, references to past Cas/Meg, references to Cas losing his virginity, introspection on the meaning of sex (there’s no right answer, though), child neglect, made-up bullshit about translating work (sorry), details in the end notes, as always, let me know if I missed something.
> 
> Thank you for reading, wonderful people ♡

“Now, I think it’s time we talked about your motivations for entering this bet.”

Alarm bells launch into terrible cacaphony inside Cas’s mind.

“Uh, why?” Dean asks, and Pamela winks.

“Honestly? I am _amazed_ either of you are still here. Charlie gave it a month, tops, when she told me.”

“Hey, I don’t back down easy. And that guy over there is one stubborn son-of-a-bitch once you get him away from a joint or a piece of ass.”

“That,” Pamela says, eyes sharp.

“What?” they both ask.

“That’s what I’m talking about.” Pamela shakes her head at Dean, who has that semi-endearing bewildered look on his face. “Alright, let’s start out easy. Now, I understand agreeing to the bet on a whim, but sticking it out this long? Emotionally, there must be a lot more at stake than you realize.”

“ _Or_ I just don’t like losing.”

Cas, for his part, stays silent, frowning; Pamela gives Dean such a wide, canny smile, Cas thinks he would probably just flee if it were directed at him.

Of course, he’s long suspected Pamela’s in on his secret.

“Dean, I can’t help but notice something that frequently comes up when you talk about Castiel is his sexual exploits.”

“Jesus, don’t make it weird,” Dean protests, looking unnecessarily panicked. “The two are just kind of hard to disentangle.”

“You see? And from what I gather, this bet of yours arose largely due to your doubts about Castiel’s ability to be in a monogamous relationship.”

“Well, yeah, but — I mean — even a — a different kind of relationship, I don’t think — he’s not exactly. . .” Dean casts a helpless glance toward Cas, like he expects him to explain it for him. And Cas might, except he has no fucking idea what Dean is trying to say.

“Not exactly what?” Cas asks, purely in the interests of being helpful, of course.

“Not exactly — it’s — it’s not just about sex, you’re also . . . prickly.”

Cas is not amused, and it must show, because Pamela clearly _is._

“Prickly?”

“Yes, Dean, please explain to the professional how I’m like a cactus.”

He congratulates himself on being much more polite than Dean deserves.

“Hedgehogs are prickly, too,” Dean insists awkwardly, and Cas regrets his manners.

“I’m not a fucking hedgehog—”

“Dean, do you mind clarifying what you mean by ‘prickly’?”

“Look, I’m not trying to start something here,” which is a reprehensible _lie,_ “I’m just bein’ honest. He doesn’t really do touchy-feely. He’s kind of . . . I don’t know, cold.”

Cas’s anger bleeds out, and it suddenly feels like the rest of him has, too.

He’s not — it’s true that he doesn’t express all of what he feels for Dean, makes an exhaustive effort not to, but Cas struggles to express his affection for _any_ of his friends. That doesn’t mean it’s not there, and he thought he managed to at least convey that much.

But apparently, Dean thinks he’s _cold._

Cas clenches his fists. Well, Cas isn’t the only one.

“Dean is emotionally unavailable.”

“Say what?” Dean demands, jerking around to stare. “Y’know, you kinda said that when we started this thing, which hey, is _another_ reason I’m so determined.”

“Fake-dating me is not going to make you more emotionally open or less traumatized by your familial relationships, Dean.”

He should probably be pulling his punches.

He doesn’t.

“ _Dr. Barnes_.” Dean’s voice comes out incredibly strained, like he’s choking on something.

Good.

“”Woah, boys, let’s not fight. At least not while I’m on duty,” she adds under her breath, and Cas doesn’t miss the sparkle in her eye before her expression straightens. “So, Castiel, you seem to want to prove . . . that Dean won’t invest himself? Is that it?”

No.

“Yes.”

“But there’s no—” she stops, considering, then continues. “Romantic element, to this relationship; there’s no possibility of a future. Is this really an accurate test of that?”

That, at least, he can answer honestly.

He hums thoughtfully.

“Dean’s issues aren’t about romance. He doesn’t like to commit to _anything._ While I do believe his relationship issues are triggered by a feeling of permanence, I don’t necessarily think the cause is where he imagines the future to be headed. I think he develops an awareness of being . . . restricted. In the beginning of the relationship, Dean is pursuing what he wants — enjoying the hunt, if you will. But then he feels trapped by it, and he starts closing himself off and subtly severing the bond in order to get free.”

“Dude,” Dean chokes out. “I’m _right here._ ”

Cas is busy thinking though, and he pays Dean no attention.

“Honestly, if he had it his way, I’ve always thought he’d take his little brother and his car and just drift across the country indefinitely.”

Long before Cas ever set eyes on Baby, Dean would tell him all about the most perfect car ever made, how he and his brother used to spend all day in that car, their Dad driving them anywhere and everywhere. It was one of the few things he _would_ talk about, in those early days, sullen and guarded and suspicious of Cas, but then he’d talk about the way things used to be and his eyes would turn bright and determined. It all sounded terrifyingly adventurous to Cas, who’d traveled between Lawrence and Wichita and nowhere else.

He liked that Dean was so excited about it — liked the glow in his face, liked how long he’d talk all at once, like they were friends — but the stories always ended the same way: _My Dad’s comin’ back for us, soon, and it’ll be nothin’ but us and the open road._

That part, of course, Cas hated, because it was never just bluster. The hope, the _wistfulness,_ was plain on Dean’s face, long after either of them stopped believing it would happen.

Maybe Dean _couldn’t_ go anywhere, but that didn’t mean he didn’t _want_ to.

“That’s not true,” Dean protests, even though he must remember all that just as well as Cas, considering how many years he nurtured that hope. “I wouldn’t leave—”

He cuts off, and some feeble, leftover hope collapses.

“Dean?” Pamela says, encouraging.

“I wouldn’t leave — my home.” The words come out halting, and Cas listens, feeling out the shape of this new lie. “This is the longest I’ve lived anywhere, and it’s got all my friends and my family, blood or not. I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

Cas wonders if Dean believes that.

“So you don’t get an itch under your skin sometimes to just — leave. Do something more.”

“That’s different,” Dean insists, the words quiet. “S’got nothing to do with why my relationships don’t work out.”

Blatant subject change. Cas sighs.

Pamela is fine with it, though; he supposes she must consider whatever they talk about progress, so long as they’re talking about it.

“Why do you think your relationships don’t work?” she asks, and Dean shrugs, avoiding her eyes.

“I dunno. It’s — they’re not right.”

“Not right?”

A string of memories flash through Cas’s brain, plentiful evidence to the contrary.

“You seem to think they’re right when they start out.”

Dean just looks frustrated.

“Like normal humans do when beginning a relationship, Cas, that’s not just me. But as time goes on — like — jeez, I don’t know. I think — sometimes I think it feels right to them, but the more time that passes, the more sure I am that, nah, this isn’t it.”

“So you feel like you just haven’t found what you’re looking for?” Pamela asks.

“Yeah. I guess. I mean, when you’re dating, it feels like — other people are searching for someone to be with, for a relationship, period. And I’m not — _not_ looking for that, but I’m also . . . looking for someone to _be_ with. I want someone who’s — who’s them, and then I’m me, and then we just _are,_ when we’re together, instead of, I dunno, defining ourselves by our togetherness.”

By the time Dean’s finished, Cas is holding his breath, so carefully does he listen. His chest suddenly feels tight in a way that has nothing to do with airflow and everything to do with the words.

 _Isn’t that we are_? he wants to ask, but there’s no point.

Two roads diverged in a wood, and Cas picked the one that only went one way.

“Assuming I followed correctly, that’s fair, Dean,” Pamela tells him. “It’s okay to not have found the right person — or one of the right people — yet. In fact, it’s okay if there is no right person, if trying to find one in the first place is the wrong thing. Castiel, do you feel like you understand better?”

It takes him an endless moment to gather his bearings, to muster some kind of response. It’s selfish to regret this, he knows; Dean is his very best friend, and Cas should — and _does —_ want him to be happy.

“Yes, I — I believe so. He does leave his relationships because he’s afraid, but not of settling down. He’s afraid of settling, period.” Cas hooks a finger beneath the ragged white threads of a hole in his jeans, tugging loosely. “I can’t fault him for that.”

And he can’t. He can’t blame Dean for wanting exactly what Cas wants just because he doesn’t want it with Cas.

“ _Thank_ you,” Dean says, obviously exasperated, but Cas catches the sliver of relief that sneaks in.

Pamela smiles, radiating pride, and Dean returns it, until—

“Now back to Dean’s issues.”

“What? We _just_ talked about my issues!”

“Your issues with Castiel.”

“So Cas’s issues.”

Her eyes twinkle, and Cas suppresses a smirk at the fierce therapist-burn he knows is coming.

“No, I think the issue is that you have issues with what Castiel does because _you_ think they’re issues, though they might not be.”

“The hell does that mean?!”

“Dean,” Cas explains patiently, “I think she means you have issues.”

“Oh, fuck you, Cas—”

“Dean.” And Pamela’s voice _sounds_ stern enough, but she’s probably enjoying this even more than Cas is.

“He was making fun of me!”

She bites her lip.

“Castiel, don’t make fun of Dean.”

“That’s like saying ‘don’t step on the crack’ when you’re hovering over a giant chasm in the earth.”

He’s a little afraid of inviting her ire, but she merely arches her brow, and he shrugs, settling against the sofa-back and presuming himself safe, for now.

“So, Dean. You, ah, fixate on Castiel’s sexual appetites.”

 _If only,_ Cas nearly interjects, but he’s both sober and very well-practiced.

“That’s — not exactly it,” Dean begins, stilted, then snarks, “Also, I don’t know if ‘appetite’ is the right word; he’s more _thirsty,_ if you get my meaning.”

“You see how wonderfully helpful he is, Pamela? He’s proving your point for you and everything.”

“Dude, if you don’t stop—”

“Castiel,” Pamela interrupts, and he knows he’s toeing the line, now. “Please.”

“Fine.” With a sniff, he turns his gaze toward the window; it’s pointless, because it’s a late fall evening and the glare from her office light leaves everything outside an unfathomable nothingness, but he can be polite.

“I understand you have an active libido, yourself, but you treat Castiel’s as being exceptional. Why is that?”

“Uh, because it is. And I’m not judging him or anything—” Cas can’t hold back a snort “—but if I’m like, above sea level, Cas is fuckin’ Mount Everest.”

Cas grins, unable to resist.

“I assure you, I have not fornicated with a mou—”

“Alright, Dean; why is that a problem? Would you say you have any unresolved feelings surrounding sex and sexuality that might be coming into play here?”

“I didn’t say it was a problem, and no. I’m good with love and . . . love. You know. Whatever people wanna do.”

“So why the preoccupation? If you accept this about Castiel, then it should be unremarkable by now. And yet, you remark on it, often.”

“Hey. That’s not true. If Cas were a monk, but he had this gigantic golf obsession, I’d make a lot of cracks about golf.”

“Do monks golf?” Cas knows very little about monks, and porn almost certainly doesn’t count. It’s probably the _opposite_ of counting.

Dean ignores him.

“All I’m saying is, when you got a friend that’s really, really into something, it’s sort of front-and-center when you think of them. That’s not weird.”

It wouldn’t be, except sometimes Dean talks about it like it’s a smoking addiction, like Cas can’t go an hour without stepping outside for a quick fuck break.

He wisely keeps his mouth shut.

“Mhm.” Pamela scrutinizes Dean with frightening intensity. “So you view Castiel’s sex life as a hobby. Castiel?”

“He’s not wrong,” Cas says, reluctant. Hobby’s not a terrible word to describe it. “In my defense, it’s as good a hobby as any.”

Dean is quiet, looking incredibly pained, and then his eyes go wide.

“I created a monster,” he breathes. Pamela’s thrown for a loop, naturally, but Cas has spent enough time unwillingly analyzing that moment from his youth that he immediately understands what Dean is saying.

And it’s hilariously far off the mark.

He snorts.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Dean. I am who I am through no effort of yours.” If anything, after that, Dean made every effort to the contrary.

Pamela, of course, is keenly interested in this conversation, at once sharp and careful as she glances between them.

“What do you mean, Dean?”

“There was a party at the end of high school. Cas had never even been kissed, so I, awesome friend that I am, got Meg Masters to take his virginity. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Cas doesn’t even bother trying not to glare; it’s the most offensive retelling conceivable, and Dean delivers it like _he’s_ the one who’s bitter.

Clearly, Pamela wasn’t expecting that. Her surprise is palpable.

“Oh. And how did you feel about that, Castiel?”

_Sick. Disappointed. Angry. Lost. Fucking heartbroken._

“Not great.” He affects as bored a tone as he can manage, ignoring Dean’s dramatic eyeroll. “Fortunately, she did not actually perform this task for — what, another year?”

“What?” Dean looks like he’s trying to reboot, and Cas would laugh if he thought he could.

“Is that right?” Pamela asks, eyes bright with interest.

He shrugs.

“So — so you — you didn’t — I mean, you weren’t—” Cas can feel Dean staring at him, but he refuses to look back. There’s a good reason they’ve never talked about this. “Why not? Did she — like, change her mind?”

“No, Dean, Meg would have been happy to do so, at pretty much any time of my choosing. I, on the other hand, still naively believed it would be better to share the experience with the person I was in love with,” he says. It’s a struggle to keep his voice even, to pretend he couldn’t care less about something so damnably significant to his whole life path.

So maybe Dean _is_ responsible.

Only when he notices Dean’s jaw hanging open does Cas realize what he just said.

“Who—” Dean starts, and Cas heads him off, frantic inside.

“At whatever time such a person appeared.” He doesn’t look at Dean, and the room falls silent.

It stays that way for a long moment.

“Interesting,” Pamela murmurs.

Cas clears his throat.

“Obviously, that never happened, and I came to see the folly in _that_ plan.” It’s not a _complete_ lie.

Dean’s shoulders slump, at that, and then he straightens back up.

“But wait — you guys were gone for _hours_. What the hell were you doing, if you weren't — if it wasn't that?”

Cas narrows his eyes, finally glancing over.

“We talked.”

“For three hours? About _what_?” There’s something off about Dean’s expression, something tight and harsh about his tone.

Cas has no idea what it means.

“A lot of things. She reassured me that I shouldn’t let you pressure me into having sex, for one.”

Dean lurches back with a series of strangled noises, glancing at Pamela.

“I didn’t — I — dude, I just — sex is _fun,_ as you well know, I was trying to help you out! And don’t — don’t say it like that, it’s not like I was trying to get you to have sex with _me_!”

Cas sighs. Therein lay the problem.

“Indeed not, Dean. Anyway, the point is, I went and lost my virginity all on my own, so you need not take credit for corrupting me.”

Dean takes a minute to process this.

“Actually. You wouldn’t have started hangin’ out with her if I hadn’t — so I mean, technically, I _am_ responsible for your first hookup.”

“Oh, for the love of God.”

Dean hesitates, and then:

“It was good, right?” he blurts out, and is he _seriously_ asking Cas about his first time, nearly ten years after the fact, in the middle of Couples Therapy when they aren’t even a real couple? “I mean — I — sorry if I, you know, was pushy, at — at that party. But I did just . . . I wanted you to have a good experience. S’one of the reasons I asked Meg. You, um — you did, right? When — when it happened?”

Cas did. Meg was uncharacteristically sweet, and very characteristically playful, and Cas sincerely appreciated the introduction into all the ways your own body and somebody else’s could make you feel good.

But he doesn’t understand why it would matter to Dean. What fucked up, misplaced sense of responsibility is guiding him now, putting that rare, anxious look on his face? He knows, now, that it happened long after any interference on his part.

So why on earth would he care?

Cas just stares, for a long time, peripherally grateful that Pamela is watching Dean instead of him.

In the end, he comes up blank, but Dean seems genuinely concerned, and nothing about the question came off as antagonistic, so Cas decides to just be honest.

“Yes. Yes, it was very nice. Enough that I’ve sort of made a hobby of it, as we discussed.”

Dean’s relief is plain, and Cas would give anything to understand it’s source.

Pamela clears her throat.

“So. That’s good progress.”

“What?” They speak in unison, mutually confused.

She smiles.

“Well, you’ve both learned something new about each other. Cleared up a misunderstanding that, while perhaps not _actively_ damaging, was obviously not unimportant.”

He nods slowly, but a part of him feels like he has more questions than answers.

“I suppose.”

“Baby steps,” she declares lightly. “Anyway, maybe that’s enough of memory lane for a bit. Our hour’s almost up; why don’t you tell me about your plans for the week ahead?”

The night Cas didn’t lose his virginity, he gained something very important, something he often thinks Dean will never forgive him for figuring out.

There is a lot more to him than just _Dean_.

And that would have been true, regardless, but as unhappy as he was in that moment, as unhappy as he sometimes still is, he likes the person he’s become; not because there’s anything particularly _great_ about that person — on the contrary, Cas is lacking in pretty much all ways most normal people measure by — but because a solid sense of self is an unexpected comfort when almost nothing around you is certain.

It’s especially a comfort when the person you’d accidentally begun to define yourself by doesn’t reciprocate your feelings at all.

Of course, Cas knows Dean resents it. He knows they might be a little closer, might argue less and laugh more, if Cas had just continued on like he’d planned. At eighteen, Cas thought he knew exactly how his life would go. He’d graduate, go to college, find a job, and through it all — love Dean Winchester.

But Cas was naive. He underestimated his own desire for requital, thought that just because he could see and hear about Dean’s numerous high school girlfriends and accept it, he could handle anything and remain unchanged.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t, because some part of him was _waiting,_ some part of him was hoping that maybe Dean just needed time, that if Cas was patient, Dean would realize he had felt the same way all along — and when Dean sent him upstairs to share something Cas still considered to be incredibly intimate with _someone else,_ that part staggered to the forefront in anguish.

“Sh, Clarence. It’ll be okay,” Meg assured him as he cried. “Dean’s your best friend, your whole world, even — and he’s not too hard on the eyes, either. Of course you love him. But it doesn’t have to be that way. You just need to — experience the world beyond him, find out there’s more than just Dean, and that it’s all pretty damn good, too.”

“I don’t know how,” he sobbed, and she rubbed his back with unexpected gentleness. “I don’t think it’s _possible._ ”

“It is. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but it is. Love is a sort of habit, Clarence, and you’ve always been Cas, Dean’s bestest friend. But you gotta figure out who just _Cas_ is, and I’m gonna help you.”

Meg made good on her promise, and Cas spent the summer and his first year of college hellbent on trying new things, trying to find the other things he could love, the things that weren’t Dean. Dean didn’t like it, and they fought about it every now and then, but Cas stood his ground and tried to tell himself the distance he was beginning to feel between them was only a good thing.

So after a year of figuring himself out, what things he liked and disliked, who he was when he wasn’t with Dean, meeting a variety of interesting, colorful people — after a year of listening to her talk, in detail, about the sexual exploits of herself and others — Cas decided that the distance between who he’d been and who he'd become was enough.

That the distance between him and _Dean_ was enough.

That this, though he was almost positive it would fall into the category of things he _didn’t_ like, was something he just needed to do.

Meg skipped her mid-afternoon ethics class to guarantee her dorm would be empty (“We could have just put a sock on the door, Clarence,” she told him, but Cas was extremely uncomfortable taking his chances), and with his heart pounding and hands shaking from nerves, Cas reached out and touched another person, and allowed himself to be touched in return.

And it was nice. Better than nice. So nice that that quiet, exploratory afternoon didn’t seem like enough; he wanted to know more, experience more.

The walk home felt like gliding on air, relief buoying his spirits all the way, because there was no way sex could have felt _that good_ if he was still in love with Dean, right? It was the definitive proof he’d been searching for that he was finally free of his feelings, of Dean’s tenacious, devastating hold.

But as the evening wore on, his good mood dimmed, and when he tried to fall asleep that night, he couldn’t.

Because the thing was, Cas had enjoyed himself immensely — but he wasn’t in love with Meg, either, no matter how beautiful she was or how close they’d become.

It was silly, and stupid, and needlessly pathetic, but Cas lay in the dark and found his eyes pricking with tears, because as desperate as he’d been to just _stop_ being in love with Dean, he was still disappointed.

He wasn’t supposed to like it.

Sex, for Cas — because he knew it was different for everyone — was always supposed to be a means of expressing the deep, powerful emotions that came with love. It was supposed to be a way of sharing yourself with the person who meant the most to you outside of your blood family, the person you found and had chosen above all others, chosen to belong to. Past feeling physically good, it was supposed to be awe-inspiring and reverential and unequivocally _right._

It should have felt wrong, having Meg touch him, or at the very least like something was _missing,_ but it didn’t. It just felt really, really good, enough that Cas didn’t have any thoughts to spare for expectations until he was all alone and the high wore off and he realized what it meant.

Feelings were irrelevant. As good as sex felt, it was never going to be some magical, profound experience, was never going to feel like a physical manifestation of absolute _rightness,_ like he’d once imagined.

Sex, Cas learned that day, was never going to mean anything.

He let himself cry, just that once, over one last stupid childhood hope destroyed, and then he never looked back.

It is perhaps one of Cas’s greatest, most enduring flaws, his absolute conviction in the conclusions that he tends to draw. No matter how many times it’s proven that he doesn’t understand things as well as he thinks, he still insists on deciding something is true and then doggedly believing it, ignoring evidence to the contrary until he and the truth collide head-on.

A few years after Cas accepted that particular truth, years during which he learned to _embrace_ it, he discovered that things were, as always, much more complicated than he wanted them to be.

Dean drank himself into a cognitive wasteland and, body reflexive and indiscriminate, tried to kiss Cas.

And Cas felt a lot of things he’d never once felt when someone else had done the same.

Of course, Dean had forgotten by the morning, but Cas never did, and when Cas lays down to sleep after therapy, he thinks of Dean’s pained, worried face when he asked if Cas had had a good experience, of how relieved he looked when Cas said yes.

He thinks about how Dean likes to talk to people in bars, or anywhere, really, likes to take them home and make them happy for a little while, how he tries in good faith sometimes to turn that into something permanent and always decides he can’t make them happy forever.

He thinks about how Pamela is right, how much Dean is bothered by the way Cas approaches it all, even though the differences seem minor.

And he wonders, for the first time, what sex means to Dean.

Cas still isn’t sure what exactly happened in therapy, but he has at least determined that Dean was worried about him, and more than that, that this entire thing began because ten years ago, when Dean cajoled him into attending that party and then tried to push him up the stairs to sleep with Meg, he did it out of a genuine desire to see Cas enjoy himself; Cas can — though it takes some effort — appreciate the thought, at least.

It also did not escape his notice that Dean didn’t say a word to Pamela about favorite muffins, soft, warm blue towels, coffee brewed just the way he likes slid in front of him during a lengthy evening work session, perfect Aquarium dates, or any of the others dozens of lovely little things that happened last week.

Most likely, he forgot, but a stubborn part of Cas wants to believe that Dean did that because — just _because,_ because Dean does things like that for people he cares about and once upon a time, that applied to Cas, and that stubborn part of him is stupidly hopeful that he can have that again.

As it turns out, hope makes for powerful tyranny against a majority of reason.

So even though it’s scary, for all the same reasons Cas originally trained himself out of it, he lets himself try to show Dean that he cares, too. And there are times, when he looks at Dean, where Dean’s movements will still, and he’ll look back, that faint crease in his brow like he’s trying to figure something out, and Cas thinks that that’s Dean noticing.

And that — that’s scary, too, but it’s also maybe important, so Cas just lets it happen.

Dean is not the only one who notices, though.

“What’s with you and Dean?” Jo asks, throwing an elbow into his side so roughly Cas is pretty sure it’s less to get his attention and more to punish him for beating her in the current game of _Risk_. Dean and Charlie have just gone to the kitchen for more beer (or to hide from their impending defeat) and Jo’s gaze is intent and assessing while Liz arranges her troops.

Cas blinks.

“What do you mean?”

“You know. With this — bet, thing.” She waves a hand. “You guys were at each other’s throats last time we all hang out, and tonight it’s all soft eyes and you going easy on him in _Risk_.”

Cas frowns at where Dean is occupying most of Europe, a suspiciously thin line of troops on the border he shares with Cas.

“I’m saving him for last.”

Jo’s lips twitch.

“I bet you are.”

Cas tilts his head, and she sighs.

“Anyway, so — that’s a thing _you’re_ doing, right?”

“What’s a thing I’m doing?”

“Not being an ass? That’s all you, isn’t it?”

“Uh. Well. Dean has been . . . more accommodating than usual.”

Her eyes narrow.

“How accommodating?”

“I don’t really have a scale for that.”

“Scale of one to ten, where one is him doing laundry more than once a month and ten is him always doing the cleanup after you fuck.”

Cas almost dumps his beer on Russia, horrified.

“After we _wha_ —”

She grins.

“So you’re not boning. Ash owes me twenty bucks.”

Cas swears.

“That was cheap, Joanna.” But cleverly executed.

“There’s no honor among bartenders, Castiel.” She takes a swig of beer and sighs, thoughtful. “I’ve still got money on you winning this thing, though, so keep up the good work. Dean seems pretty happy.”

Cas’s anger melts away, even though she’s apparently involved in _two_ bets over this (he’d probably do the same in her shoes, anyway).

 _What do you mean_? he wants to ask, but he can’t, because Jo’s not stupid, nor is she as gruff as she acts, and he doesn’t want her giving him sad, sympathetic eyes if she figures it out.

“Honestly,” he says eventually, waiting until she’s mid-drink. “I could handle cleanup. I would rather him do laundry.”

Jo chokes, ending up with beer all down her front, and when Benny starts snickering at her, she jumps over the coffee table and wraps her arms around him, grip firm despite his struggle to hoist her away.

“No — hey now, blondie, you can’t just — aw, _damn_ it.”

Jo maintains it was deserved; Benny contests that he’s too big to borrow a new t-shirt.

Cas and Liz can’t stop laughing, nor do they try, even when Cas takes his turn and nearly swipes all his troops into Siberia. They’ve only just settled down — Liz sobered by the capture of her last holdout in Asia — when Cas yells for Dean to come take his turn. If he _is_ happy, he won’t be when he sees the board.

“Coming, sweetheart!”

Cas can hear the sarcasm in his voice, and somehow it makes it better.

“Not in the kitchen, Dean, that’s disgusting!”

Everyone else groans, but then they’re laughing once again.

And when Dean comes back in, eyes warm as they meet Cas’s, a grin suddenly spreading across his face before he tosses him a new beer — because he must have _noticed_ Cas was almost out — Cas thinks Jo’s right.

Dean _does_ look happy _._

Cas hears Dean’s phone ring while he’s in the bathroom getting ready for bed. He can’t hear much with the door shut and the water running on and off, but one look at Dean’s face and posture when he comes out, and Cas is positive it’s Sam.

Dean is relaxed, expression pleased and exasperated and utterly unguarded; Cas knows they don’t talk as much as Dean would like, and it will probably be another hour at least before they’re done.

“Right, tell her she sucks.” There’s a pause, and Dean looks annoyed. “Anyway, Sam—” Dean is saying, and reluctantly, Cas interrupts.

“Dean, can I turn the light off?”

Dean turns his head, and Cas tries not to look curious about who sucks and why.

“Yeah, Cas, hang on, I’ll come to bed in a minute.”

Cas isn’t actually sure if that was a ‘yes’ or a ‘no, wait, I’ll be there soon,’ but he can read for a little while and see.

He’s not sure why he doesn’t just ask.

“Take your time. Is that Sam?” he asks, feigning uncertainty lest Dean suspect he was eavesdropping. He really wasn’t.

Dean nods.

“Tell him I say ‘hello.”

Dean shifts.

“Cas says ‘hello,’” he tells Sam, and satisfied, Cas turns to leave. “Right, so anyway, Sam—”

As predicted, Dean doesn’t come to bed for another hour. Cas is halfway propped up against the pillows, eyes drooping as they struggle to focus on his book, when there’s a light rap on the door jamb.

Cas squints at him sleepily, and Dean arches a brow.

“Can’t sleep?”

Possibly; Cas is used to coming to bed after or at the same time as Dean, and he carefully avoids thinking about the fact that he’s _used_ to Dean being there when he falls asleep.

But tonight, he’s just waiting. Dean has a lot of complicated feelings about Sam being hundreds of miles away in California, out of sight and often too busy to call, and sometimes after they do talk, those feelings weigh on him.

“How’s Sam?” Cas asks.

Dean walks over and slips into his spot, already ready for bed.

“He’s doin’ okay. Boss is still a dick, but you know. I can tell he loves the work.”

Cas nods.

Dean says it casually, but Cas can read between the lines. Dean hates that Sam has to put up with some random jerk that won’t respect him or look out for his interests, and as far as Sam’s enjoyment of the challenges that face him goes — Dean’s afraid.

What if Sam loves it too much?

“How are you?” Cas asks, a hushed, soft thing, so as not to startle or upset.

“Hm?” Dean fiddles with his pillow, not meeting his eyes.

“I know — you worry about him.”

“Yeah. I do. But it sounds like he’s good. And he’s got Val there with him, so it’s not like he’s by himself.”

“Right.” Cas pauses, trying to think how to provide what Dean needs but can’t ask for. “But you wish you were there with him, too. Or that he were here with you.”

This, at least, is one feeling Cas doesn’t need explained to him.

Dean cracks a smile at that.

“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to. I’m fine, Cas. It’s not like it’s forever.” Which is probably true. Sam loves his family, misses his home; he’s planned to return ever since he left, and Cas doesn’t think that’s changed. “This is his home, after all. He’s gonna come back.”

Cas lets the words sink in.

No, Cas doesn’t think Sam’s changed his mind; in fact, he’s confident he won’t.

But Cas has thought things, before, about home, about what it was for someone, and been wrong when they didn’t come back, after all.

“Of course,” he says carefully, and thinks about how in a few months time — if they make it that far — Dean is going to leave again, regardless of what happens in the interim.

Dean frowns, misunderstanding.

“You think he won’t?”

“What? Oh. No, I’m sure Sam will.” Dean and Sam would never leave each other for good, after all. If Cas thinks, sometimes, that Dean would just take Sam and Baby and run, then he thinks almost as often that Sam, no matter how much he complained about it, would willingly go with him.

They’re all very lonely thoughts, and nothing more is said before Cas finally turns out the light and falls asleep.

Cas is just beginning to feel hungry around six o’ clock the next evening, an unfortunate side effect of eating regular meals, when Dean texts.

**> > s** **mth came up** **@work** **will be late so prob wont get groceries make sure you eat tho**

Disappointment floods him. He hopes it’s nothing serious, but he doesn’t like to eat without Dean.

(Yet another dangerous habit he’s settled into.)

He’s debating how much grief Dean will give him if he texts back asking _what_ he should eat, wandering to the refrigerator in an attempt to determine this for himself, when he sees the shopping list, neatly organized by category and pinned to the door.

He looks at Dean’s text again and makes his decision.

After sending off a response containing a lone cactus emoji — because emojis are wonderfully useful tools of expression, no matter what Dean tries to say — he grabs his rarely used keys and heads down to the parking garage. He hopes Dean will understand, once he gets home.

_I might be broken, but I do care._

The shopping takes much longer than it probably would have if Dean had done it, but Cas painstakingly checks off every item on the list, and then, instead of heading for home, he drives the opposite direction to where one of Dean’s few heavens-on-earth is situated right outside KU campus.

 _Mis_ _s_ _ouri’s,_ the sign proclaims, bright in the chilly fall night. It’s almost eight o’ clock, but Cas crosses his fingers that they’ll have the golden delicious apple pie with all the chunky sugar granules embedded in the crust that Dean favors.

He buys the last one, and Missouri shoots him an uncomfortably knowing smile.

“Well, boy, you say hello to your other half for me, alright?”

Cas almost asks if she knows about the bet, but then he remembers that Ellen and Missouri are good friends, and this is probably just an old habit of speech rearing its ugly head.

Still, he doesn’t like the way she’s looking at him.

“Okay,” he agrees meekly, and then slips out the door in a hurry, trying to tell himself she can’t possibly _know._

Dean makes it home just as Cas is collapsing into an armchair with a notebook, and he hastily arranges himself to look more settled, like he’s been there for hours, although it will be obvious to Dean that he has not.

Naturally, Dean heads into the kitchen, and Cas peers surreptitiously after him (he may have deliberately chosen the armchair for its clear line of sight through the kitchen archway).

He watches as Dean stops, and then starts walking toward the island.

“Cas!” he calls back, louder than necessary. “Did you — is this a fucking pie from Missouri’s?”

Cas coughs, looking back down at his notebook and beginning to scribble aimlessly, neck warm.

“Yes. It was on the way home from the store.”

He can feel Dean’s eyes on him.

“Jesus, Cas, you’re the _best —_ this is like, the greatest thi — heyyy, wait a minute.” Only then does Cas realize his mistake. _Shit._ “No, it isn’t.”

He stiffens, staring hard at the notebook.

“What isn’t what?”

“Missouri’s is not on the way home from the grocery store. It’s fifteen minutes in the opposite direction.”

Cas wanted to show he cared, not make it embarrassingly obvious just how _much._ Surely Missouri’s is on the way home from _some_ grocery store.

“I — went to a different one.”

Dean continues to look at him, unimpressed.

“And yet you bought the store brand chicken broth from the usual one.”

Cas almost swears. He _knew_ he should have just put it away, but he didn’t know where it went, and he figured it was just as much work to have to move things around than put them away to begin with.

“I . . .” Cas starts, reflexively bouncing his knee as he struggles to come up with some kind of explanation.

He can’t.

“Aw, sweetheart,” Dean drawls. “You _left the house,_ to get me _pie._ ”

And then Dean’s hands land on his shoulders, and Cas jerks, cheeks almost certainly scarlet by now.

“Well. I — I had to leave the house anyway, there was nothing to eat,” he tries, and Dean just looks down at him, probably contemplating how best to draw out his suffering.

Which is just _mean._ Cas bought him a fucking _pie._

Dean doesn’t tease him anymore, though; he looks down at Cas for a long, fraught moment, and Cas is bracing himself for just about anything when suddenly, Dean bends, still supporting his weight on Cas’s shoulders.

Cas shuts his eyes in reflex, and then — and then there’s a warm, wet mouth on his cheek, the scent of motor oil and faded cologne and Dean’s sweat filling his nostrils.

He practically shrieks, surprised and panicked as he is.

“ _Dean,_ ” he whines, damningly breathless, and swipes at his face so his hands don’t accidentally pull Dean back to give him a literal taste of his own medicine.

Dean’s mouth was soft, and it should have been gross, feeling that quick swipe of tongue across his cheek, but it barely even registered. Mostly, it was just Dean, hands holding onto him and face close, combined with the knowledge that the feeling driving that childish display was a form of gratitude, because in this tiny way, Cas had made him happy.

Once, Cas _would_ have hugged Dean for making muffins. Once, Dean would have done the same when confronted with this pie.

But they don’t touch much anymore, and Cas misses it desperately.

Dean’s already heading back to the kitchen, laughing.

“ _Cas,_ ” he says, feigning grumpy impatience. “You gonna have a slice of this or what?”

Cas takes a deep breath.

“Not now, Dean. Obviously, neither of us can have pie until after dinner.”

He doesn’t have to see Dean’s face to enjoy what he knows it’s doing.

Cas will never forget the first time Dean hugged him.

Cas didn’t get a lot of hugs, as a child. He could remember stiff, perfunctory embraces from his mother when he’d come home from school, but those had stopped when he was about seven. He’d tried to seek one out, not long after, only to be scolded for wrinkling her clothes.

“Goodness, Castiel, aren’t you a little old to be clinging to me?”

He didn’t try again, and he still doesn’t know why she’d ever bothered in the first place. Probably someone had told her he would end up mutilating small animals before moving onto people if she didn’t, and it was just barely sufficient motivation.

Anna hugged him sometimes, too, when he was very sad, or when something happy happened, but she always held him like she wasn’t quite sure how; Cas appreciated it anyway. He didn’t know, either. No one ever really taught them.

But eventually, someone did.

About a year after he’d met Dean, had attached himself to the grumpy, reluctant object of his fascination, his persistence had been rewarded with an endlessly satisfying and (mostly) stalwart friendship.

Thus, they were playing at the park with Sam one day, as they often did, when Sam kicked his legs too hard soaring up on the swing, and his skinny little body slid right off.

He burst into tears when he hit the dirt, and Cas, closer to him than Dean, who was hiding somewhere on the playground while Cas sought him out, rushed over. To his surprise, Sam didn’t hesitate to throw his arms around Cas, sniffling against his shoulder as he clung. It was wholly unexpected and Cas equally unprepared, but he tried his best to hug back.

He did so poorly Sam stopped crying.

“No, like this,” he told him, voice thin and watery, and there on the shabby little neighborhood playground, seven-year-old Sam Winchester taught Cas how to hug.

When he finally pulled back, Dean was standing a few feet away, staring, his brow furrowed.

Cas didn’t get a chance to ask; the next moment, Dean’s expression cleared and he was darting forward to thump Sam on the shoulder, proclaiming him ‘it.’

But later, once they’d dropped Sam off at Bobby’s and Dean had insisted on walking Cas back to his house, as he always did, he turned to Cas, shoulders tense and gaze oddly furtive. Cas just waited patiently; after almost a year, he understood the importance of not rushing Dean.

Dean didn’t have anything to say, though. Instead, he just stepped forward and pulled Cas into a tight, squeezing hug.

And Cas — Cas knew what to do this time. He hugged back.

It was a little sad, when Dean pulled away, walking off with a gruff, “’Night, Cas,” but mostly, Cas’s heart felt full and his skin felt warm, and when he went to bed that night, he was smiling.

Every time Dean walked Cas home, straight up until they left for college, Cas received a wordless hug goodbye.

Cas also remembers the last time Dean hugged him; it was November 2nd of their freshman year in college, when Dean slipped out of his bed and crawled into Cas’s without a word. Cas waited up the next year, eventually knocked on Dean’s door just in case he was needed, but Dean never answered.

It has been many years since then, but still, Cas hopes it won’t be the last time _ever_.

Dean tells Pamela about the pie, to Cas’s surprise, and then they wait in silence while she scribbles out an unusually lengthy note.

“Now, despite what we talked about a few weeks ago — and I do feel like we resolved some important things — you both seem more committed to this bet than ever,” she says afterward, and Cas lowers his eyes.

It’s second-nature, almost, to fight with Dean; it’s some kind of fucked-up version of self-preservation, he supposes. But after the cringeworthy incident at the bar, Cas understands that his remaining months are not guaranteed, and if he wants them — if he wants things between them to be _okay,_ afterward — it’s in his best interests to make this work.

It’s easy to be good to Dean, though, just like Cas was afraid of.

“So . . . Dean,” Pamela continues. “You seem to have gained a better understanding of — a better appreciation for — Castiel. In fact, you were just telling me how happy you were when he did the grocery shopping in your stead, and went out of his way to get you pie.”

“Uh. Well, yeah. It was pretty cool.”

“But what do you gain by telling me that?”

Dean looks taken aback. He opens his mouth to speak, then snaps it shut.

Cas waits, curious.

“I don’t plan on winning through any shady means. Cas did a — a good thing, for me, and he deserves recognition for that, if we’re gonna be fair here.”

It’s an interesting departure from his previous views; Cas tries not to read too much into it.

“I see. That’s very nice, Dean; you’re making excellent progress, with regards to respecting your partner.”

“I always resp-”

There’s an arch look from Pamela, and he sighs.

“Whatever. Thank you.”

“All I’m saying, is that if anything, neither of you necessarily believe what you’re trying to prove.”

“Uh. How do you figure?”

“So you still feel that Castiel is completely ill-suited to a relationship?”

Cas can practically see the gears turning in Dean’s head.

“I — you know, that wasn’t really the — the _premise,_ of the bet, technically. Maybe I thought — you know, he’d totally suck at it, but even if I can admit that he . . . you know, won’t suck as bad as I _thought,_ what I’m really doing here is showing him that _I_ would still be better.”

It is a compliment delivered in classic, uncomfortable Dean Winchester fashion, and Cas is undeniably touched.

“I see.” Pamela lets out a slow hum, then nods. “Fair point. Alright, then. Castiel? You, especially, seemed to have a change of heart about what you felt were Dean’s primary mistakes in a relationship. Why are _you_ still here?”

He was too busy listening to Dean to realize he’d be next.

He concentrates, trying to compose something plausible and non-committal, but it’s hard. Pamela is watching him, but thus far she’s been reasonably circumspect in her line of questioning, and whatever she may have concluded, Cas doubts she’s going to come right out and _say_ anything about it.

No, the problem is Dean. Dean is looking at Cas, too, his vaguely resigned expression smoothing out and turning curious, and only then does Cas realize that he’s staring back.

It’s only natural, though; when someone asks you a question, you look toward the answer.

“I don’t know,” he eventually manages, tearing his eyes away. He hears a soft exhale from Dean’s end of the sofa. “I guess I just don’t like to lose.”

He doesn’t, but it’s not really the bet he’s so afraid of losing.

“Mm.” Pamela scratches out another quick note. “Alright, then. So let’s talk about how you do weekends.”

The change in subject is an unexpected mercy, and if Cas wasn’t sure Pamela knew before, he is now.

Any friendship can only withstand so much suffering, and by the time Cas is done translating this book of poetry, he may be one friend short.

“So, what’re you working on?” Dean asks, and it is a testament to just how much this project is fucking with him that he doesn’t even flinch when Dean puts a hand on the chair back and leans right into his space.

He works on the sentence a little longer, hates how it turns out, and scribbles it into an illegible blur with a sigh.

“A favor for a friend,” he mumbles.

Dean’s face inches closer, eyes scanning the page.

“What kinda favor? Still translating, it looks like.”

“Yes.” Cas sighs again. “But I usually do novels, or manuals, or things like that. This — this is a book of poetry.”

And seriously, _fuck_ poetry, no matter what language it’s in. It’s all lawless anarchy to him.

“What’s the difference?” Dean asks, like it’s that simple, and Cas shakes his head.

“The difficulty in translation is preserving the atmosphere, the nuances of feeling, that the original maintains. Any story worth translating is more than X happened in Y place to Z people. The words an author uses to describe what’s happening make the difference between the reader knowing what happened and the reader feeling like they experienced it themselves. Or — for example, suppose _nothing_ is happening, no concrete action or event. Suppose there’s no dialogue, but the scene is intended to be meaningful and emotionally significant. You have to understand the feeling of the scene and convey it, losing as little as possible, in the translation. But often, there are context clues. There’s more information to draw on to help understand what’s happening.”

With a novel, the author has already decided what information is necessary for the reader to experience the scene; but in poetry, sometimes information is nestled right inside _other_ information and if you use one wrong word, you can lose the meaning, and if you use too many words, you lose the flow and—

Again, _fuck_ poetry.

“Okay, makes sense. And how’s poetry different?”

“Poetry is often more abstract, as is the case with my friend’s book. Sometimes it’s nothing _but_ feeling and atmosphere, and there’s very little direct translation. You have to fully connect with the author to be able to reliably translate their work; if I weren’t her friend, I would have refused. It’s more than just translating words, even more so than novels. And you have to capture the same impact, somehow, and . . . I don’t know. It’s — it’s hard, especially for me, to translate someone else’s feelings. Honestly, I sometimes struggle to enjoy poetry on its own, because I so often don’t understand what’s being said. Even if, in theory, the information is all there, I just . . . can’t. I can’t see what it means.”

There’s some clever wordplay about fairies and traps and bewitchment in here, and yet it is not a fantasy poem; never mind _translating_ it, Cas has very little idea about what’s actually going on in it. It’s either about romantic love or childhood dreams, and for people who are not him, the two are not generally interchangeable.

Dean’s quiet for a long moment, and as always, his presence is a catch-22; Cas’s irritation is beginning to fade, after a little venting and the comforting warmth of another human being at his side; however, some other agitation is amping up, because Dean is warm, and near, and if he’s not careful, Cas will start thinking about the types of stress-relief he _usually_ seeks out when he hits a roadblock.

“Well, um. You want help with anything?” Worry dissipates, replaced by surprise. “I wasn’t, like, great at this in school, but I did okay. Maybe with both of us, we can figure it out.”

Cas looks at him. Dean will do things _for_ him — especially lately — but it’s been a long time since Dean volunteered to do something _with_ him.

Of course, he used to help explain people to Cas all the time, but that was when Cas still thought he understood Dean, at least.

He was good at it, though. Dean could walk into any room and leave it richer for friends, could charm just about anyone if he tried. Cas chalked it up to a natural empathy, mostly, although there wasn’t _not_ a calculated cleverness to it.

He smiles, rueful.

“Maybe I _should_ let you help me. You've always connected better with people — better than most people, not just me. It’s instinctive, for you.”

“Well.” Dean’s clearly uncomfortable with something that could be construed as a compliment. “Even if that’s true, it doesn’t mean I can help put it into words.”

Perhaps not; but Dean’s offer of help seemed genuine, and for all the mystery still therein, Cas understands Dean better than he understands anyone else. If Dean is helping, Cas might just be able to do this.

And even if he can’t — working together with Dean sounds like a much more pleasurable way to spend the evening than quietly running in circles on his own.

“True. But I — sometimes I understand things much better, when you tell them to me — so try, and then _I’ll_ put it into words, if I can.”

Dean slides into his seat, and when Cas finally glances over, he nearly does a double-take.

Dean looks happy.

Cas has just asked him to set aside his other plans and assist him with what will potentially be incredibly tedious work, and Dean seems excited about it.

Like he always _used_ to, when Cas asked for his help. Like it’s _important_ to him, to be able to do things for Cas, because _Cas_ is important to him. There was a time, even, when Cas privately imagined that interest to be proprietary in some way, so reminiscent was it of the attention Dean paid to all his most treasured possessions, of the satisfaction he derived from maintaining them; he tentatively supposed that he was another thing Dean might consider as belonging to him, another deeply cherished treasure, and Cas presumed to be honored.

Of course, Dean _had_ considered Cas as a sort of belonging, but more like the kind you take for granted because it’s just — always there.

“Sounds good. Where do I start?”

Cas slides a rough draft over, trying and failing not to stare as he wonders how he should feel about this, or if it even matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** SPOILERS ***
> 
> References to Dean’s past relationships: In the context of therapy, the three of them discuss why Dean’s relationships tend to fail. Cas proposes commitment issues, because Dean doesn’t like feeling trapped, but Dean argues that he just hasn’t found what he’s looking for.
> 
> References to Cas’s sexual exploits: In therapy, Dean describes sex as a ‘hobby’ for Cas. He makes uncomfortable jokes about it, however Cas acknowledges this isn’t a terrible description, the implication being that Cas has a very active and fairly non-discriminatory sex life.
> 
> References to past Cas/Meg and references to Cas losing his virginity: The party at which Dean tried to set Cas up to sleep with Meg is discussed; Cas notes that he did lose his virginity to Meg at a later date. In a flashback, this encounter is non-explicitly referenced, and Cas’s feelings about it are explored, though it is stated that he enjoyed himself very much.
> 
> Introspection on the meaning of sex: In the flashback regarding his loss of virginity, Cas experienced some disillusionment about sex; specifically, he had previously felt that for him, sex would not be something he could enjoy without feelings. He comes to the conclusion that sex is meaningless. However, the party at which Dean almost kissed him is referenced, which Cas feels taught him that perhaps there can be different meanings to these things. In the present, after considering these experiences, he wonders what sex means to Dean.
> 
> Child neglect: In a flashback where Sam teaches Cas to hug, Cas’s experience with physical affection from his mother is referenced. It is stated that she gave him what are implied to be obligatory hugs up to the age of about 7, at which point she began scolding him if he asked for them. He notes that his sister sometimes hugged him, but having grown up in the same household, did not have much experience with physical affection, either.
> 
> Made-up bullshit about translating work: I don’t know any translators and my translation experience is limited to beginner-intermediate language courses. I enjoy reading and writing poetry, however I have not formally studied it. If you’re a language person, you’ll probably facepalm. Apologies.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: referenced past Dean/Aaron (see end notes), child abuse/neglect (see end notes), recreational drug use (Cas and marijuana), references to the thwarted hookups of their first date, background Meg/Tracy, non-serious suggestions of a threesome, please let me know if I missed anything.
> 
> Hoping to get the rest of this posted tonight, but if not, then by tomorrow night. Thank you so much to everyone reading, and for your comments/feedback! ♡♡♡

“So, you’re over three months in, now. I’m impressed.”

Cas isn’t sure how to respond to that.

Things have somehow settled into a comfortable routine — more than comfortable, it’s _pleasant —_ and while that’s good, in theory, it’s making Cas feel increasingly off-kilter.

When Cas started exploring himself and the world around him, he and Dean experienced a dynamic shift and gradually, negotiated a new normal; after Dean moved out in senior year and they didn’t speak for ten months, they once again reset the status quo and eventually figured out a new, different equilibrium.

This feels like that, in some ways, but it also doesn’t; it feels like, despite the changes they’ve both undergone, they’ve found their way back to some combination of how things were before and in college, with something strange and new and unexpectedly comforting thrown in.

It’s not _perfect;_ the lack of conflict is fucking with Cas’s head, and he doesn’t know how to behave half the time, which sometimes means he behaves badly. But Dean has his moments, too, and yet, in between them, Cas would say things are better than they have been in years.

It’s making him scared.

Dean remains silent, and Pamela moves on, apparently having spoken in the rhetorical.

“Of course, that means the holidays are nearly upon us. Have you talked about how you’ll handle that?”

Cas didn’t think they needed to. Dean would almost certainly go home and visit with his family, and Cas would use the time apart as a sort of test to make sure he wasn’t getting _too_ comfortable in the current situation, to make sure he’d be able to function normally when he didn’t fall asleep on soft memory foam to the sound of Dean’s light snores, when Dean was no longer cooking for him and making sure he ate, when the TV ran for a quiet crowd of one, because everything is somehow less amusing when Dean isn’t there.

When he’d agreed to this, he was confident he’d be fine, afterward; that so long as their friendship survived, he’d just enjoy the time he got and walk away when it was over, none the worse off.

Now he’s not confident of anything.

“Uh. No.” Dean glances over at him, like he’s expecting something, and Cas just shrugs. “No, we haven’t.”

“What do you usually do?”

“Well, Sammy and I always go home. So maybe we can hiatus this thing for a week, and Cas can, uh, do whatever he wants.”

It’s just as Cas expected.

He’s not sure why he feels disappointed.

“Alright. If you both feel like this would interfere with your plans. Although, couples usually do holidays together, to some degree.” Pamela gives them an odd little smile, toying with a lock of hair. “Shame. I had a rubric and everything.”

“Oh,” is all Dean says.

The disappointment curdles.

“So . . . Castiel, are you expected at home, as well?”

Cas is never expected at home, no. He would go to spend Christmas with Anna, but he usually likes to stay a couple weeks at least, and he doesn’t wanted to miss that much of their bet. He can go see her after it’s over.

It will probably be good for him.

“My family doesn’t do Thanksgiving,” he tells Pamela. “Sometimes a few of my siblings get together for Christmas, but not this year; since college, I mostly just . . . sit quietly.”

“By yourself?” She’s clearly troubled by this, but he nods. “I see. You said ‘since college’? What did you do in college?”

Oh. He hadn’t meant to.

It takes him a moment to decide how to explain.

“I went to Dean’s house. I knew his family well, since — since we’d been friends for so long.”

Pamela eyes Dean, considering, and her next question seems to be directed at both of them.

“And after college?”

Dean is on his own, because Cas isn’t touching this one.

“Uh. Well. Cas was — not around as much, and anyway, the guy I was dating at the time didn’t have anywhere to go for the holidays, so it would have been awkward if I took my friend instead.”

Pamela nods slowly, and Cas hopes that at least made more sense to her than it did to him.

“Why not invite him as well?”

Cas has always wondered that; as — as _uncomfortable,_ as it might have been, seeing the mysterious boyfriend after years of assuming Dean was straight (yet another relic of baseless certainty from his youth), Cas still would have gone. Sam and Ellen and Bobby and Jo would have been there. It would have been worth it.

“Yeah, well, it was my first boyfriend and we were already going through a rough time, so . . . I don’t know, I was twenty-two and I’d only just come out as bi, and somehow I thought, if Aaron and I couldn’t hack it, it would mean it really was just a phase or something. I’m not sayin’ it made sense, but it’s how I felt.”

Ah. Cas hadn’t ever had to worry about his sexuality being validated.

She gives him a considering look.

“First boyfriend, huh? And right out of college,” she muses. Dean nods. “That’s . . . well.”

Pamela is probably wondering why Dean didn’t get his experimenting out of the way _in_ college, like everyone else. Cas thinks back to Dean, close-to-plastered and ready to kiss his best friend, and wonders — not for the first time — if that was him trying.

Could he have handled being Dean’s gay experiment? Could _they_ have handled him being Dean’s gay experiment?

Cas tends to go back and forth on that, but either way, he’s pretty sure it would have been a short experiment. Dean would have sobered up in the morning, whatever they’d done, and hidden himself away to explore his bisexuality in private.

Cas just wishes he knew why Dean felt like he had to hide, to do that. Cas was a flagrantly practicing queer and was so good at hiding his feelings for Dean, he himself had only just realized he still had them. He would never have made Dean feel uncomfortable.

Unless, of course, Dean realized Cas _did_ like him. Cas has wondered about that, too.

“Alright,” Pamela says. “But, that was then, Dean. Why not — revive the tradition?”

“Uh.”

Cas waits, fingers curling into the sofa cushion.

“My family doesn’t know.”

“Your family doesn’t know,” Pamela echoes, and Cas squints at Dean, because it sounds farfetched to his ears, too.

“That Cas and I are . . . you know. Doing this thing.”

“Not even Sam?” Dean doesn’t lie to Sam, unless he thinks he’s protecting him by doing so. This has nothing to do with Sam, though.

“Especially not Sam.”

Or, Cas amends, unless he’s _embarrassed._

“Why does he think we’re living together, then?” Cas knows Sam knows _that_ much.

“I told him my place was under construction.”

Cas frowns.

Dean is almost certainly lying.

But why?

“Why is that, Dean?” Pamela queries, clearly wondering the same thing. “It isn’t a relationship in spirit, and you aren’t obligated to lie.”

Dean’s lips tug downward, and then he makes a face.

“Because! It’s — it’s weird. Like, do I pretend to be his boyfriend in front of my family even though they know it’s not real? Or do I get a free pass for the week and treat him like my buddy?”

Cas is utterly hopeless when it comes to Dean, and is thus relishing in the time they have because of this bet.

That said, he cannot remember, at any point, being treated like a _boyfriend._ In fact, as much as they’re getting along lately, he’s still barely being treated like a _buddy._

“Dean,” he says slowly. “You do realize you don’t treat me that differently at home? In fact, if this is how you treated all your past partners—”

“Shut up, Cas, you know what I mean.”

No, he really doesn’t.

“I’m not sure he does, Dean. Please, Castiel, finish your thought. It’s very relevant to the reason you both come see me, after all.”

“ _Well,_ ” Cas starts, drawing out the word while he thinks, “He’s sarcastic and crass, he complains a lot, he teases me, he acts like an overexcited puppy when something even mildly ‘awesome’” he does the air-quotes, just for Dean “happens, and he’s constantly trying to feed me and interfere in my personal business because — he’s bored? I’m not sure. I don’t know whether I’m being treated like a child or a pet he assumes can’t understand what he’s saying.”

“Neither, man!” Dean exclaims, turning a very interesting shade of red. “It’s ‘cause — you’re _family_! That’s how I am with family! It’s kinda hard to just switch off now that we’re faking a relationship!”

Oh. Cas is — in addition to still being best friends, Dean considers him family.

Cas didn’t know, anymore.

Pamela thinks for a moment, lips rolling in as she nods.

“So, Dean — just out of curiosity — you agree that you didn’t treat your past partners like this?”

“Well, of course not!”

“You didn’t consider them family? Even the serious relationships?”

Dean falters.

“Well, no, we — we weren’t there yet.”

Cas takes a steadying breath and remains silent, although he has a lot of questions.

“So you think if you _had_ gotten there with any of them, you would behave that way?”

“Uh. I mean. Sort of. Maybe — maybe not quite like that . . .”

“Why’s that?”

“Just — I mean there’s _family,_ like a wife, and then there’s _family,_ like Sam or Cas.”

“You place Castiel in the same category as Sam a lot,” Pamela points out, and Dean bobs his head enthusiastically.

“Of course. They’re — my brothers. That’s like a — a whole ‘nother league of family.”

“I see. And Castiel, do you feel like Dean treats you the same as he treats Sam?”

Cas pauses, brow furrowed. Obviously, if he is Dean’s family, he’s a brother, but if he tries to factor Dean’s relationship with Sam into that equation . . .

“Mostly,” he finally settles on.

“What’s the difference?” she pushes, and Cas pinches the hem of his shirt, pulling at it while he thinks. There are many similarities, it’s true, and yet in every way they _are_ similar, there’s something off about it with Cas.

But if he had to choose one thing—

“Dean is — he and Sam have had terrible fights, certainly, but — those are fights. Dean’s rarely angry at Sam.”

“Oh?” She writes something on the notepad. “So you feel like — Dean is angry at you more?”

“Honestly?” He makes himself look up. “I feel like Dean is angry at me all the time.”

All the affection, all the banter, all the familial echoes of his relationship with Sam — they come with an edge that’s been there since they were teenagers and never quite softened up.

Dean twists, taken aback.

“I am not!”

Pamela disregards it, focused on Cas.

“What do you mean? And why do you think he’s angry?”

And that’s a much harder question to answer; Cas has a number of ideas, but no single one really justifies what he senses in Dean almost constantly, and they’re difficult to put into words; the pressure he feels to do something _different,_ to somehow ameliorate whatever it is that’s driving it, is something he endures as well, and as much of a burden as it seems to be on the both of them — Cas still can’t identify its source or solution.

He shrugs, frustrated and perplexed, as he always is when he stops to think about this.

“It feels like—” he begins, halting, and ultimately, there’s only one way to say it. “Like he wants something from me that I’m failing to give.”

“And what do you think he wants from you?”

“I have no idea,” he says, and he doesn’t. He’s thought about it, a lot, about what he even has to _offer_ Dean, and he’s never sure, doesn’t really know why Dean still bothers, when Cas so often seems to make him unhappy. “I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s more than one thing. I would give it, if I could.”

It’s a long moment after he’s said it that he realizes, and he blinks, coming back to himself with a frown. He hadn’t meant to.

“You make me sound really fuckin’ high-maintenance, Cas,” Dean mutters, voice audibly strained, even as quietly as he says it.

Cas sighs.

“Something like that. It’s probably my imagination.”

“Dean, what do you think? Take a minute. Is there something more you’d like Castiel to do?”

Dean takes a minute, a fairly long minute, during which Cas swears he seems increasingly troubled, but it disappears by the time he speaks.

“Um, no, not really. Cas does plenty. We’ve been friends this long for a reason,” Dean adds.

Cas is not brave enough to ask what that reason is.

“Mhm.” After a searching look at Dean, Pamela makes a note on her legal pad. “Well. Keep thinking. Maybe we’ll revisit that another time. For right now, let’s resolve the issue of holidays. Dean, if you’re not obligated to perform in any way in front of your family, would you be amenable to taking Castiel home?”

Dean’s face twitches.

“Yeah. Okay. I can — do that.”

Something in Cas’s chest unclenches, turns soft and sweet where it presses up against his heart.

He hates it. Dean didn’t even _want_ to take him, and he hates that, too.

“Alright, and Castiel? Is that something you’d be interested in?”

“If Dean doesn’t mind. It’s that or nothing.”

He fixes his eyes on the wall, and musters up all the indifference he can manage.

It’s not a lot.

“I don’t. It — it’ll be fun, probably. Always used to look forward to Thanksgiving with you,” Dean adds, and Cas’s heart drums forcefully, pressing right back against that strange other presence.

He tilts his head, and can’t help but look at Dean then, thinking of all the Thanksgivings they’d shared before.

Mostly, it just makes him sad.

He schools his face into a neutral expression, nodding.

“Alright. Let’s do that, then.”

“Okay. Cool. I’ll, um, let Bobby and Ellen know you’re coming.”

“Thank you.”

Pamela seems happy, when they leave. She catches Cas’s eye and holds it, just a beat too long, and he looks away.

He’s not sure what she was trying to say, but whatever it was, he doubts it will make a difference.

The first year Dean invited Cas to Thanksgiving at Bobby’s was also the first year Anna wouldn’t be welcome back home; Cas’s family didn’t celebrate Thanksgiving, but Anna should have been able to come back for fall break.

She wasn’t.

Dean had been more aggressively anti-Novak than ever since Anna had been thrown out, and instead of reading the invitation as part and parcel of Dean’s promise to always take care of him, he read it as an excess of pity and another harsh judgment against something Cas couldn’t change.

So what if Ellen was nicer than Naomi, if Bobby was actually around all the time, if Sam and Jo were always ready to play and tried to cheer you up when you were feeling bad? Cas’s family was the way it was, and even though he felt lonely and a little afraid, sometimes, whenever he had to stay at his house, that didn’t mean they were evil or anything.

And besides; if Dean thought Cas’s family sucked so much, didn’t that mean Cas must suck a little bit, too?

In any case, by the time Dean expressed horror at Cas being stuck at home on Thanksgiving and demanded he come escape to Bobby’s, Cas had had enough.

Three years in a row, he heard about Aunt Ellen’s pie. Two years in a row (because that first year, Dean had been bitter and petulant and refused to say anything else) Cas had heard about how much fun he and Sam and Jo had playing around, how Bobby and Ellen would come out into the yard after dinner and play, too.

Cas would have been ecstatic to receive an invitation any one of those years, but _this year_ —

“Damn, Cas, your family’s a bunch of dicks,” Dean declared eagerly, as soon as Cas had said how Anna was going home with a college friend instead. He shook his head, moving a hand to grip Cas’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t have to be trapped there either. You can come over, if you want.”

Cas, still haunted by Anna’s expulsion from the house and the real possibility that the same might happen to him because _maybe_ Dean was right, and maybe Cas’s mother didn’t care about him as much as she should, did not hear this as a long-desired invitation made as much in Dean’s self-interest as Cas’s.

No, Dean was _allowing_ him to go, strictly to save him from his family, who Cas couldn’t even claim would care if he wasn’t going to be around.

Cas was probably just another way for Dean to entertain himself when he couldn’t find anything better; maybe Dean only had him stay over as often as he did because he felt sorry for him, because Dean, who didn’t _have_ a mom, and whose Dad almost never came around, still considered Cas to be _that bad off._ And if Cas really was that bad off, then why _would_ Dean actually want him around? Cas’s family didn’t, and they were _supposed_ to love him.

It was humiliating, and frightening, because if Dean really did just feel sorry for him, then — then what did Cas actually have, at the end of the day?

He jerked back, shrugging Dean off. Cas _wasn’t_ pathetic. He didn’t _need_ Dean, even if it felt like it sometimes, and there was no way he was going to just gratefully accept Dean’s _charity,_ if that’s all it was.

 _I’ll always take care_ _of_ _you._

Was that all _that_ was, too?

“No. I don’t want to.”

Dean looked stung.

“What? But — but don’t you—”

“No, I don’t. So what if my family is — is ‘a bunch of dicks’? This isn't even your real family, so — so what business do _you_ have feeling sorry for _me?_ ”

Dean gaped, the naked hurt in his eyes triggering a profound regret in Castiel.

“ _Dude,_ ” he said, and Castiel stood up from Bobby’s porch step, shoving his hands in his pockets and briskly walking forward so he didn’t cave.

Dean wasn’t allowed to just — be a jerk to Cas, whenever he wanted. Cas could, and would, stand up for himself, no matter how much he loved Dean.

Tears sprang to his eyes at that thought; it’s not like it really made a difference, so Cas rarely gave it much thought, but that was when Cas was sure Dean cared about him in some way, too.

Except now it seemed like Dean couldn’t care less about whether Cas was with him for Thanksgiving, wouldn’t have bothered asking if he didn’t hate Cas’s family, and what if there came a day when Dean _wouldn’t_ take care of him, wouldn’t see him as important at all?

There was a loud, hasty clattering of gravel behind him, but it would be way too mortifying for Dean to see him cry over this; before Dean could reach him, Cas broke into a run, and if he’d always been proud of being faster than Dean, now he was just grateful.

Dean didn’t catch him, of course, and Cas slammed his front door behind him.

The following hours were some of the darkest of Cas’s young life, but fortunately, they didn’t last long.

Cas was just lying down to try and fall asleep when there came an alarming _taptaptap_ at his window.

He jumped out of bed, anxiety and persistent stomachache immediately shoved aside by panic, and with trembling fingers, he pulled open the curtain and saw—

Dean, scowling at him from the other side.

Where he was perched on the sloping little roof outside Cas’s window.

Cas scrambled to unlock it and pull it open.

“Dean!” he hissed. “That’s _dangerous,_ you could have hurt yourself!”

Dean huffed, face pale, and strode to the door to lock it.

“Yeah, and it would have been _your_ fault. You know I can’t run as fast as you.”

Cas crossed his arms.

“That was the point.”

“Well, it was a dumb point. And so was that other thing you said.”

Cas looked at the floor.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“No shit, Sherlock. Your mom is probably gonna like, put me in her oven and eat me if she finds me here.”

Cas bristled.

“Then you should _go away,_ ” he snapped, and Dean’s face darkened.

“Hey,” he barked, and they both winced. Dean stalked over, peering down at Cas, eyes glinting in the faint glow of the nightlight. Cas pressed back against the edge of the bed and tried not to be intimidated.

He _hated_ that Dean was getting his growth spurt first.

“What do you want, Dean?”

Dean was silent for a minute, just looking at him, and then he huffed.

“I wanted to say I was sorry.”

“I don’t _want_ you to be _sorry_ —”

“I _mean,_ I’m sorry for — for saying it stupid. You were being _way_ too sensitive, though.”

Cas would have thrown his hands up if he’d had the space. As it was, he glared up at Dean, hoping his resentment was conveyed.

“This isn’t a very good apology.”

Dean pursed his lips.

“Yeah, well. I’m bad at shit, what else is new?”

Cas threw an anxious glance at the door.

“Don’t swear, Dean.”

Dean had the nerve to look amused.

“So she _will_ put me in the ove—”

“And you’re not bad at anything. Sometimes you don’t try hard enough, but there’s nothing wrong with you,” Cas added, because as mad as he was, he couldn’t quite help himself. Dean was _way_ too hard on himself, considering he was the smartest, most talented person Cas had ever met.

Well — except when it came to apologies.

Dean’s smile faded, and he ducked his chin, causing Cas to flinch back a little, Dean’s forehead dangerously close to bumping his own.

“You, um. You didn’t get what I was saying,” Dean finally said, not meeting his eyes.

Cas swallowed.

“What were you saying?”

“Y’know. That I wanted you to come to Thanksgiving.”

“Because you think my family is terrible.”

Dean looked up, frustrated.

“ _No,_ because — because even if you had parents like Bobby and Ellen, I’d still want you to come to Thanksgiving, ‘cause — ‘cause I _always_ want you around, okay? It’s just — everything’s more fun when you’re there.”

It was pretty much _exactly_ what Cas wanted to hear, but—

“Why did you say it like that, then? Why did you make it sound like you felt sorry for me?”

“Well, I _do_ feel sorry for you, but not how you think. I, um, I — uh. Well, you’re my best friend, so it pisses me off when people don’t treat you right, okay? I’m not gonna apologize for that.”

Oh.

“That’s fair,” Cas agreed. “But still, you said I _could_ come, if _I_ wanted. You made it sound like you didn’t care.”

Dean huffed.

“Yeah, I know, but — come _on,_ Cas. It’s embarrassing.”

“No, it’s not. Why would it be embarrassing?”

“ _Because._ We spend so much time together already, I didn’t wanna look — _clingy._ ”

Cas furrowed his brow.

“Clingy?”

“You know. Like I was trying to get all your time, or something. What if you _didn’t_ want to come to Thanksgiving, sort of like how you ignore me when you get a new book? I would have felt kinda stupid, y’know, like it looked like I liked you more than you liked me or somethin’ like tha—”

Cas threw his arms around Dean and, in a word, _clung._

He couldn’t promise never to ignore Dean so he could read a book (he had to; if Dean was around, he’d keep distracting Cas and ruin the whole story), but he _was_ pretty sure of one thing:

Nobody in the history of the world had probably ever liked someone as much as Cas liked Dean — and certainly not Dean, himself.

“Speaking of _embarrassing,_ ” Dean mumbled, but he squeezed right back.

Thanksgiving was _perfect,_ that year and every year after, no matter what random to-do’s and kerfuffles arose, because for the first time in his life, Cas felt like part of a family.

But it’s been a long time, since then, and things are much different than they were, and this year — well, Cas isn’t sure what it’ll feel like.

He’s worried about it.

“So, Cas! I hear you're finally joining us as Deano’s plus one, this year.”

Cas’s grip on his beer tightens. It’s five days before they’re all set to meet at Ellen and Bobby’s, and he gets more and more nervous as the date nears.

“Don’t call me that,” Dean mutters beside him. Jo continues like he hadn’t spoken.

“Mom’s really lookin’ forward to havin’ you again,” she says with a smile, and surprises Cas by squeezing his hand. “Me, too. Well, and Bobby, of course.”

Cas searches her face, and finds nothing insincere.

He doesn’t know what to make of it, or the sudden tightness in his throat.

“Oh, I’m, uh, glad. I didn’t want to impose.”

“You? Impose?” She sounds startled. “I don’t think you could. You’re welcome there, whether you’ve got Sam and Dean with you or not. You know that, right?”

No; that was never made clear. It’s not even something Cas had ever _considered._ They were _Dean’s_ family, but if Cas wasn’t _also_ Dean’s, then — he had no business being there.

Right?

Once again, Jo’s eyes look back at him with genuine warmth, but Cas struggles not to doubt it.

“Thank you,” he mumbles awkwardly.

She snaps her fingers.

“Right! Mom wanted me to ask if you wanted anything special for dinner?”

Next to him, Dean frowns.

“Why didn’t she ask me to ask him?”

Cas looks between them, uncertain, and Jo fixes Dean with an odd look, then smirks.

“Probably ‘cause she knew you’d just say ‘extra pie.’”

Cas wouldn’t have minded. It’s not what he would ask for, but extra pie always puts Dean in a good mood, and Cas obviously prefers Dean in a good mood.

He shrugs.

“I’ll be happy with whatever she wants to make.”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Dude, just tell Jo what you want.”

“I don’t—” _want anything,_ he’s about to say, because he refuses to put Ellen to additional trouble, no matter what Jo says, but Dean cuts him off.

“Yams with cinnamon and marshmallows, Jojo. Pass it on.”

Cas freezes.

“Don’t fuckin’ call me that—”

He never told Dean that was his favorite; it was served on and off the first few years Cas attended, and had become a guarantee by the time he stopped being invited.

“Don’t call me Deano.”

But he never told _anyone_ that was his favorite, and he certainly didn’t eat an excessive amount of it, either, so how could Dean possibly know?

“Hmph. And anyway, I thought you hated sweet yams, on principle, since they’re — how’d you say it? ‘Two streets over from pumpkin pie, which isn’t real pie?’”

Cas forces himself to return his attention to the conversation.

“Yeah, but Cas is a big ol’ deviant and he likes ‘em, and so long as you don’t put it next to my goddamn pie, I think I can handle it. Oh, and leave some of the marshmallows aside for him to snack on later.”

Cas stares at Dean, wide-eyed, and Jo turns her assessing gaze to him.

“Huh. He tellin’ the truth, Cas? You want that?”

“Uh. I don’t want to put Ellen out,” Cas starts, futilely attempting to tear his eyes away from Dean.

Dean, who knows things he should not know, or at the very least, should have forgotten.

“Nah, Mom’ll be happy to do it, or she wouldn’t have asked. I’ll let her know.”

“Thank you,” he tells Jo, finally looking at her — but then his eyes are drawn back to Dean, and he thinks about how Dean pays more attention than Cas usually gives him credit for, and somehow, he feels strangely betrayed.

Cas is so fucking nervous he can barely stand it.

And he knows there’s no point to it, that it will do nothing to improve the situation he’s nervous _about,_ but he can’t seem to help himself. He catches himself zoning out in the middle of tasks, thinking of all the ways the long weekend could go horribly wrong, and he’s lost count of how many times he’s fallen into some dismal self-reflection, evaluating how these people he cares deeply for yet hasn’t seen in a long time are going to perceive the him of now.

He doesn’t like the conclusions he draws.

And of course, because the universe will never just let Cas be unhappy in the quiet privacy of his own head, he finds himself _snapping_ at Dean. Dean, who really _is_ always welcome there and who is clearly not worried at all because Cas is only his _fake_ boyfriend and whatever ways he manages to embarrass himself, Dean will have no problems laughing about it.

Dean is unaware of all of this, and certainly doesn’t appreciate it, but Cas can’t explain and he doesn’t know how to say ‘sorry,’ because that’s something they both unlearned years ago.

Of course, it doesn’t help that he overhears Dean on the phone with someone, probably Ellen, swearing vehemently that there is absolutely _nothing_ real about his and Cas’s relationship.

Therapy on Monday is more a check-in session than anything, but Cas is pretty sure Pamela notices something is off. She asks if they’re looking forward to the holiday, and for the first time, Cas kind of wishes he were seeing her by himself. In this instance, it might help to have someone to talk to.

More importantly, he knows, it would be nice to have someone _reassure_ him.

But Dean is there, and would probably just laugh at Cas, wouldn’t understand what he was even worried about, so Cas just sort of nods and says something he thinks is reasonably positive, and they move on.

He tries going on extra runs, just to burn off the toxic energy, and even avoids Dean a little, to _ensure_ he can’t randomly be an ass, but the day before they’re supposed to leave for Bobby’s, Dean loses his patience.

Cas’s internal angst has distracted him enough that he’s falling behind on work, and he’s _just_ managed to focus on his current manuscript and get into the flow of things when Dean starts nagging him to come eat dinner.

It feels like Dean is interrupting him for the sixth time when he raps his knuckles on the kitchen doorway, telling Cas, “Step away from the manuscript and just come _eat,_ for God’s sake,” and some of that pent-up stress spills over.

“I’m starting to understand how _fortunate_ I am that the mother I had _ignored_ me,” he snaps, glaring, and Dean—

“What the _fuck_ is your problem, man?” He storms over, and Cas knew as soon as the words left his mouth that he shouldn’t have said them, but he just — he feels so out of control and agitated and he doesn’t know what to do with it all.

He scowls at the floor instead, and Dean continues.

“Seriously, I fuckin’ breathe wrong and you have a goddamn tantrum. If you’re gonna be like this all week, maybe you should stay home.”

It’s like a punch to the gut, and Cas forgets all about being angry, everything in him reserved for panic.

Yes, fine, he’s nervous — he’s afraid of how things will go, that he’ll be bad at all this, now — but he _does_ want to go, desperately.

And he wants Dean to want him to go, too.

“I—” he starts, at a complete loss for how to explain it, if anything could even be gained by trying, and simply comes up blank.

God, maybe he should stay home.

It’s all too much, and his stomach feels sick and his skin feels strange on his body, and _still,_ he can’t find the words, so he doesn’t say anything.

He gets to his feet and walks out.

“Your boyfriend’s a _dick,_ Clarence,” Meg drawls, snatching the joint out of his fingers and taking a long drag. “Why are you dating, again?”

“Because his boyfriend looks likes the lovechild of Titania and Apollo,” Tracy says, adjusting her glasses as she lines up a swathe of fabric in the sewing machine. She’s never met Dean, but Cas assumes she must have seen pictures.

Meg rolls her eyes.

“Sure, but he _acts_ like Titania had the baby with that donkey from _Midsummer Night’s Dream_ instead.”

Tracy shrugs, and then the buzz of the sewing machine fills the room.

“You can’t have everything.”

“I can,” Meg says sweetly, batting her lashes, but Tracy looks unimpressed.

“You locked me out on the balcony for singing along to One Direction two days ago. Let’s not pretend you think I’m perfect.”

“Of course I think you’re perfect,” Meg insists. “I’m just trying to help you be _more_ perfect.”

“I had to _climb down._ We’re on the fourth floor!”

Meg leers.

“What’d I tell you?” she says, tone silky. “ _Perfect._ ”

Tracy purses her lips, but Cas thinks she looks amused.

“Cute, but we’re not having a threesome with Cas tonight. Sorry, babe.” The buzzing stops, and Tracy reorients the fabric before resuming.

“Does that mean another n—”

“I will use you as my pincushion.”

Meg grins at Cas, as if to say _aren’t I the luckiest girl in the world,_ and it just makes Cas feel even sadder.

“I’m not allowed to have threesomes right now,” he informs them morosely.

“Me either, apparently,” Meg says, in an effort to cheer him up, but it doesn’t really work.

“The worst part is, I don’t — I don’t _want_ to have threesomes.”

“Well, nobody’s always in the mood.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Tracy mutters.

“That’s not it,” he insists, and Meg reaches over to pet his hair.

“What is it, then?”

Cas is silent, and Meg sighs.

“Oh, Clarence. You wanna fuck your boyfriend, don’t you?”

He shakes his head, although there’s no point.

“Everyone wants to fuck his boyfriend.”

For someone who said she was working and didn’t have time to play with them, Tracy’s being very participatory.

There’s a pause.

“Oh?” Meg says, voice full of mischief. Cas lifts his head to see her smirking. “Does that mean we can have a threesome with _Dea_ —”

“ _No,_ ” Cas snaps, sitting up. “He’s not allowed to have threesomes right now, either.”

Meg and Tracy exchange a look.

“I thought we figured all this out in high school, Clarence,” Meg says carefully, and Cas slumps back against the cushions.

“What do you mean?”

“You know. The whole Dean-Winchester-Is-Not-The-Sum-Total-Of-Humanity thing, remember? There’s more to life than green eyes and freckles?”

Of course there is; there’s more to _Dean_ than green eyes and freckles.

(Although Cas is very fond of those parts of him.)

“I know.”

“Okay, then what’s with the—”

Cas stares at her, daring her with his eyes.

She stares right back.

He looks down.

“Nothing. We just — we already got in trouble for that in therapy.”

“For . . .?”

“Cheating.”

“You sly little kitten—” Meg starts, looking unmistakably proud, but Cas shakes his head.

“We didn’t _actually._ It’s just — it was a bad date and he picked up a girl wearing a Dr. Sexy shirt and Gary looked like Captain America so it — it made sense to me. But there was only one bathroom.”

“What the fuck?” Tracy asks pleasantly, and Meg holds up a hand.

“Okay, Clarence. Walk me through this. Where was this date, Comic Con?”

“No, a bar.”

“Okay, and you both met somebody. Even though — you were on a date with each other?”

Cas nods.

“Dean started it.”

“Uh-huh. Told you he was a dick.”

Cas opens his mouth to protest, and then shuts it, for a number of reasons.

“Okay,” she continues. “So what does only one bathroom have to do with it? You guys took them back to your apartment and everybody wanted to wash their face or what?”

Cas laughs in spite of himself.

“No.” He shakes his head. “The bar. We were going to fuck in the bathroom, because Dean likes having sex in his car, but I guess — the parking lot was too far away? I don’t know.”

Meg gives him a stern look.

“Clarence, you are twenty-seven-years-old. You can’t have sex in public restrooms anymore.”

“Tell that to my grandmother,” Tracy sighs. “I didn’t do a damn thing, and I’m still banned from Chipotle.”

“Are you working or just sewing shit to other shit?” Meg demands, and Tracy winks.

“You’ll never know.”

“Ugh. Anyway, Clarence, you’re not allowed to start fucking in public restrooms again until you’re seventy.”

Surprisingly, Cas _is_ a little cheered up by the idea that he might still be having physically challenging sex in his seventies.

“Alright, so — you _were_ going to cheat, but the bar only had one bathroom?”

“That has to be a health code violation,” Tracy comments, and Meg nods without looking at her.

“Yeah.”

“Well, then what happened?”

Cas shifts uncomfortably, his increasingly pleasant high still doing nothing to dull the ugly memory.

“We started arguing. Gary went away, but the girl Dean—”

“Shut the front door,” Meg interrupts, appalled. “You were gonna fuck a guy named _Gary_?”

Cas frowns.

“What’s wrong with Gary?”

“Yeah, what’s wrong with Gary?” Tracy echoes. “Fave spongebob character, hands down.”

Meg’s face contorts.

“Stop,” she says. “I don’t want — oh, god _damn_ it, I’m picturing it. Fuck you, Trace.”

“Later. When I’m done sewing shit to other shit and Cas has gone back to the missus.”

Cas huffs a laugh, reaching for the joint and taking a pull of smoke.

“Don’t tell Dean he’s the missus.”

“Nothin’ wrong with being the missus,” Meg says, frowning.

“Besides, if Dean were sitting here getting high in my living room, I’d be calling _you_ the missus.”

Cas shrugs. He’s certainly not bothered by it.

“So wait; the missus is just whoever’s waiting for the other person to come back?”

Cas is suddenly bothered by it.

“I guess? Give me a break, you’re high.”

“Fi—wait, that’s not how it works—”

“Anyway, Cas was telling us about how he didn’t cheat on Dean with a sea snail. Go.”

“Captain America,” Cas corrects her, and she throws a smile over her shoulder before depressing the machine pedal once more.

The buzzing is becoming sort of soothing.

“Mm, Captain America,” Meg sighs. “Did he have the pecs?”

“I didn’t make it that far,” Cas says, thinking back to how Gary filled out his t-shirt.

Dean has very nice pecs, he thinks instead, for no apparent reason.

“Right, because Dean is a dick _and_ a cockblock.”

“Words are so fuckin’ weird,” muses Tracy.

“So how come you’re still dating?”

Cas didn’t consult Meg before agreeing to this — they only talk every couple weeks, for the most part — but when she did hear about it, she thought it was a bad idea.

“Pamela said it didn’t count since we both did it.”

“I should date me some Pamela.”

Tracy just snickers.

Cas isn’t sure how long he spends there, chatting about increasingly random things with them, but after a little while Tracy turns off the lamp and takes off her glasses.

“You staying for dinner, Cas?” she asks.

He thinks about it, head muzzy, and then remembers why he came here in the first place.

“Oh. I can’t. Dean made me dinner. He wanted me to eat it.”

“That’s fine. Should I call you a cab?”

“Don’t toke and drive, Clarence,” Meg declares, and Cas nods.

“Yes, please. And I can’t, I came here by taxi.”

Meg gasps.

“You knew I’d share my weed with you!”

“You are my most generous friend,” he tells her solemnly, and catches Tracy’s smile before she turns around to finish dialing.

“Don’t you forget it, angelface.” She yawns. “I’m starving, are you sure you don’t want something for the road?”

“Yes,” he says, even though now that they’ve brought up food, he’s _very_ hungry. “I want to eat what Dean made.”

“I’m sure you do.” She leers at him, and then breaks into giggles.

Cas joins her, although he has no idea what the joke was.

He’s still feeling immensely chill by the time he makes it back home, too preoccupied with getting something to eat to be too worried about what else might be waiting for him.

He barely remembers to take off his shoes before he has the fridge open, humming a nonsense tune as he searches out dinner — or string cheese, if they have it. String cheese is _wonderful_ when you’re high; it’s smooth and squeaky, but when you pull it apart, there’s all this delightful texture inside.

And, of course, it’s fucking _delicious._

There’s a shuffling noise by the breakfast bar, and Cas experiences a suffusion of warmth despite the gnawing cravings of his stomach.

It’s still incredible to him, that he can come home, and Dean will be there to greet him.

Cas looks up, smiling freely. Dean is standing there, watching him, and though Cas is distantly aware that they were fighting last time, he can’t quite detach himself from the happy feelings it gives him to see Dean at all.

“Oh. Hello, Dean.”

Dean scrutinizes him for a second. He doesn’t look as happy as Cas, which dampens his mood a little, but that’s fine.

Cas is used to it.

“Hey, Cas,” he finally says. “Tupperware on the top shelf if you’re lookin’ for dinner, bottom left drawer if you want the string cheese.”

Dean says it like it’s a choice between the two, and Cas can’t suppress a pout, tapping his fingers against his chin as he tries to compose a reasonable argument for his indulgences.

“Can I have both?” he settles on. Good enough.

“Don’t ask me, I’m not your mother,” Dean retorts.

Very true. Cas doesn’t like his mother a fraction as much as he likes Dean, and in a very different way besides.

In any case, it’s enough of a ‘yes’ that Cas resumes his humming and reaches for the tupperware. He’ll let the string cheese enjoy its chilly suspension a little bit longer. It gets less squeaky at room temperature, and that won’t do.

“That pot, or booze?” Dean asks abruptly, and Cas is surprised by the question until he remembers who he’s talking to, and it doesn’t take him long after that to realize what the _real_ question is.

He laughs.

“What’s it to you?” he asks, eyeing him without turning his head. Dean gets so terribly uptight about the drugs, which is endlessly amusing (or something else) to Cas, because he certainly didn’t care when it counted.

Dean doesn’t say a word, and even turned around, busy trying to pry the lid off of dinner, Cas can feel him staring.

He sighs, taking pity on him.

“Relax. It’s just a little weed.” And then he can’t help but add: “I needed to calm down, as you so _helpfully_ pointed out.”

But he glances over his shoulder and winks, so Dean knows it’s mostly a joke.

Dean plays the quiet-game some more — it’s always a surprise to find he’s capable — while Cas gently shimmies the tupperware container until it’s dead center in the microwave and hits a random button, but as soon as the countdown starts, Dean walks over.

“That is not how you reheat leftovers, dumbass.” He does something with the power level and timer, and Cas shrugs.

“Honestly, Dean, I don’t think I’ll be able to tell the difference.”

He’s saving his good senses for the string cheese.

Dean hovers in the kitchen until the food is done — he probably knows Cas would have stopped the time and taken it out too soon, because he’s impatient when he’s high (and when he’s not high, but whatever) — and then he heads for the hallway.

“Alright, buddy,” he says, pausing on his way out of the kitchen. “Come get me when you know where you are so we can get our stuff ready for tomorrow, okay?”

Cas rolls his eyes.

“I’m not _that_ high. I could pack after I eat.” He’s glad Dean reminded him, though.

“Really?” Dean says, obviously doubtful, and he’s about to insist, when he remembers what he’s packing _for._

Damn it. Maybe going to Meg’s was a bad idea.

“Well.” He sighs, runs a hand through his hair while he considers it. “No, I should wait. I have to pack carefully.”

Dean leaves him to eat in peace — and Cas lied, he definitely notices how good the leftovers taste, like they’re fresh out of the pan — and by the time Cas makes it into the bedroom to pack, he’s already snoring away.

Cas tries to reassure himself that he’s an adult, and he doesn’t need Dean’s help to pack, but he still sits on the closet floor staring anxiously into his empty carry-on bag for a full twenty minutes.

It’s three in the morning before he goes to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** SPOILERS ***
> 
> Past Dean/Aaron: In therapy, while talking about the holidays, Dean refers to the first boyfriend he had, just out of college (Aaron). Not a lot of details are given; mostly, Dean's giving an excuse for why he didn't take Cas to Thanksgiving that year.
> 
> Child abuse/neglect: Anna’s eviction from the house is referenced, as is Cas’s anxiety over his place there. Once again, it is suggested that Cas is not receiving the care and affection he should be at home, and he feels insecurity over this, which contributes to him doubting Dean’s attachment to him, as well.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: references to anger issues, flashback with drunk and verbally abusive John (details in the end notes), Sam/OFC (Valencia is an OC my sister and I have been developing for a few years; I didn't originally plan to post anything I wrote, so I apologize if her presence is awkward. Picture Gal Gadot), Dean & OFC friendship misunderstood as Dean/OFC. Please let me know if I missed anything.

The drives goes smoothly — though it’s a fairly short drive to begin with, and Cas thinks Dean drives a little faster than he probably should — and by the time they’re climbing Bobby and Ellen’s porch steps, they haven’t bickered once this morning.

Ellen answers the door, and Cas has just started trying to figure out how to greet the only person who ever showed him any real maternal affection as a child after not seeing her for several years, when she engulfs him in a bone-crushing hug.

It’s lack of air that has his eyes stinging, he decides.

“What in the hell took you so long?” she asks, once she’s finally released him.

“Dean drove pretty recklessly,” he offers, tilting his head in confusion. “I thought we were early.”

Of course, Dean was responsible for planning; perhaps Ellen expected them sooner.

Ellen looks past him, frowning at Dean for a long moment. Cas pities him; no wonder he drove so fast. Ellen’s disapproval is an unpleasant thing.

“Alright, get in the house.” She motions them inside. “Heard you boys were bunkin’ down together back home, so I figured the two o’you could just share the downstairs guest room instead of anybody havin’ to make up the sofa.”

“Sounds good,” Dean says, the cheer in his voice undeniably strained. Cas bites back a smirk. He’s never even heard of another person being as attached to their mattress as Dean is, and Dean can’t be looking forward to being apart.

His humor fades when Ellen starts asking him questions, all of them very kind and reasonable, if brusquely delivered, but incredibly difficult to answer. Cas hadn’t really prepared for that when he’d tried to mentally practice his small-talk; it feels vaguely like an interrogation, and Dean stays silent the whole time, using baggage transport as an excuse to trail behind.

The fact that Ellen has to ask these questions at all — about what he’s been up to, what he’s doing, how his sister is — drives home just how long it’s been, and while the seemingly genuine fondness in it all is unexpected and warming, it leaves a small ache in his chest just the same.

“Well, then. You two get settled in and come get some dinner, alright? We’re eatin’ light on account of tomorrow, but it oughta do.” She knocks against the jamb a couple of times, like Dean tends to do when standing in doorways and wanting to punctuate a point. “After that, you can help me get things ready.”

Dinner is a quick, simple affair, but nice; Bobby has some questions of his own, but he keeps them short and simple, and when it’s time to clear the plates, he claps Cas on the back and tells him, “Good to see you again, boy. Don’t wait so long, next time.”

He hustles off with his dish before Cas has to say anything.

Cas doesn’t mind kitchen duty — he’s relieved to be able to help, since he _is_ imposing on their hospitality — and Dean seems enthusiastic about the piemaking. It’s been a long time since Cas has seen Dean make pie crust, and he guiltily amuses himself during the lulls in conversation by watching Dean out of the corner of his eye as he cuts in the butter with firm, efficient strokes, biting his lower lip in concentration.

Dean takes pie very seriously.

Around seven o’ clock, Dean announces that it’s time to collect Sam and Valencia from their flight, and it’s not until he’s followed Dean out of the kitchen to the entryway that he realizes he wasn’t actually invited to come along.

He waits for a moment, uncertain. It’s not _unlikely_ that Dean will still ask. In fact, Dean might even toss Cas’s shoes at him if he keeps standing there, complaining that he’ll make him late.

But Dean just pulls on his own boots, shrugging into his jacket without a word before turning to Cas, eyebrows raised.

Cas continues staring at his shoes, trying to summon the nerve to ask, but the chance that his presence may be unwanted stays his tongue.

Eventually, Dean speaks.

“Something you want?”

Cas glances up, surprised.

“Uh. No. Sorry.”

Dean hesitates.

“Okay. Well. I’m gonna head out, then,” he says slowly.

Suppressing a sigh, Cas nods, glancing back down.

Probably unwanted, then. Cas knows he wasn’t subtle.

“Alright. Drive safe,” he offers, quiet, and waits to see Dean off.

Dean stands there for another minute, and finally, with a short wave, walks out.

And Cas knows he should probably join Ellen, Bobby and Jo for post-dinner cocoa and TV, but the idea of going back in there without Dean has him terrified all over again.

Ellen insists he put on a coat when he pokes his head in, awkwardly informing them he’s going to visit the old treehouse, and Cas obliges.

Then, after a quick detour to grab his emergency weed, (which he put in and took out of his suitcase no less than five times during the packing process because it’s probably rude to get high when you’re a guest in someone else’s house, but also he gets freaked out and it’s the best thing for that), Cas heads out into the yard and, for the first time in years, climbs a tree.

Cas wasn’t around for the construction of the treehouse; he didn’t meet Dean until shortly after he moved to Lawrence, around the same time Mr. Winchester had dropped Sam and Dean off ‘for a few months’ ostensibly. The treehouse, on the other hand, had been built the year before, the first summer Dean had been stuck there, angry and unused to being in one place.

Cas wondered about that treehouse for _months_ before Dean finally, grudgingly, asked if he wanted to come up and see it, and Cas had literally _jumped_ at the chance.

He remembers Dean worriedly hovering at the base of the tree, hands ghosting over Cas’s legs just in case he lost his balance, because Cas got clumsy when he got excited.

And Cas _was_ excited; to the best of his knowledge, even Sam had not been allowed this honor, because this was Dean’s special, personal space, made just for him, and that standard had been sternly maintained without exception. But for the first time, someone who was not Dean — someone who was as undistinguished and surely unworthy as _Cas —_ was being allowed inside.

He scrambled up the last few rungs of the ladder, and with a reverential awe, began committing every single detail of the cozy space and various knicknacks to memory.

There was no guarantee he’d be invited _back,_ after all.

Dean followed a moment later, standing awkwardly beside him. When he reached to rub the back of his neck, his elbow bumped the ceiling.

“So, uh. This is it,” he said, and Cas nodded vigorously.

“It’s perfect,” he told Dean, and Dean looked down, smiling.

“It’s pretty cool, I guess.”

“It’s _perfect,_ ” Cas repeated stubbornly, and this time, Dean beamed.

“You wanna see my batman comics?”

Cas nodded eagerly — his mom didn’t let him read comics — and Dean crouched next to a little cubby and pulled out a few gallon sized ziploc bags.

“This is how you keep ‘em safe,” Dean explained, carefully pulling one out. “You can’t leave ‘em here during the summer, though, ‘cause it gets too hot.”

They spent the afternoon reading, Dean mostly just peering over Cas’s shoulder to provide additional context or get excited about whatever part was coming next.

Cas didn’t mind.

In the end, he must have comported himself acceptably, because the next day after school, Dean dragged Cas straight there.

They’d spend ages playing in the treehouse, much to the chagrin of Sam and Jo, but Dean insisted. Cas never quite understood why — often, they’d do the same things up there that they would have done in the house with Sam and Jo — but he never argued, either. Cas loved playing with Sam and Jo — had never had so many people to play with, before — but a part of him _also_ kind of loved having time where it was just him and Dean.

In the early days, Cas’s mom still insisted he come home for dinner most nights, a restriction that frustrated Dean to no end.

“You guys eat earlier than us. We barely have time to hang out! Can’t you come over afterward?” he eventually suggested, tired of their weekday time being cut short.

“But I don’t know when you’ll be done eating dinner.”

“Well — you can just wait in the treehouse. Bobby got me that electric lantern thing for a reason. If it’s on, I’ll know you’re up there.”

And if Cas was a little surprised that Dean was okay with him being up there by himself, he certainly didn’t point it out.

Excusing himself to go play with Dean after dinner only got easier as time passed and his mother cared less and less, but the thrill of climbing up, turning on the lantern, and knowing Dean would see it and come find him — _that_ never got old. Even when he ended up waiting close to an hour, there was something exciting about it, about the guarantee that his patience would pay off, and any minute, he’d hear Dean shuffling across the lawn and scaling the ladder, only to appear through the space in the floor with a grinning, “Hey, there, Cas.”

It’s a shame, Cas thinks, now. He’d turned waiting for Dean into a habit long before he could have known it was a _problem._

Dean comes to find him once he returns; Cas was hoping for it, but he wasn’t necessarily expecting it.

Weed mellows any unwanted pangs Cas might feel, hearing the telltale sound of someone climbing the ladder, and mostly Cas just feels _happy,_ a familiar anticipation rising in him as he waits for Dean to appear.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, as soon as he sees the spiky tips of Dean’s hair. Dean blinks at him, but there is no easy grin, tonight.

Instead, he just sighs.

“Hey, there, Cas. How you doin’?”

“Good,” Cas murmurs, and he’s being honest. He’s been up here for a while now, immune to cold and other bad feelings, and the texture of the woodgrain tickles his finger as he draws the tip in circles across it. Dean is following the movement, the beginnings of a frown on his face, so Cas smiles at him, hoping that the grim line will decide to change course.

“Yeah, you seem like you’re doin’ real good.” The frown smoothes out, at least, and Cas smiles wider, taking in the rest of him. Dean hasn’t bothered to come all the way inside, which is a shame. Cas feels _enormous,_ lying there in the cramped little box; if Dean gets in, too, there will be more bodies than air.

It’s ridiculous, in the most pleasing of ways.

“Yes. It’s — it’s nice. I’m enjoying myself very much, Dean,” he tries to explain, carefully seeking out his words. “Because — it’s so _small._ And I’m big. But I’m in here anyway.”

The treehouse isn’t designed for a grown man, after all, and there’s something about the small, harmless act of defiance that tickles him immensely.

Dean bites his lip, looking amused. Cas wishes he would share the joke, but he’s glad Dean is enjoying it. A joke that no one enjoys is not a joke, after all.

“Wow, Cas. You’re high as a fuckin’ kite right now, aren’t you?”

A split second passes, and then Cas smirks, thinking of _another_ joke, one he’ll get to enjoy, this time.

“I don’t _need_ to be high to enjoy the simple things, Dean,” he returns. “After all, even when I’m sober, I’m still friends with _you._ ”

Dean gives him scary eyes, but Cas can tell he’s trying not to laugh, and he grins. He doesn’t know what Dean’s joke was, but Cas’s is automatically better, because both of them liked it.

“That wasn’t a no,” Dean points out, and he’s not wrong.

“No, it wasn’t.” Cas sighs, bracing himself for a show of temper. Dean doesn’t like when he gets high. Dean doesn’t seem to like it when he does _anything_ fun, but he especially hates it if the thing involves drugs. Still, sneaking off to a tree in order to get high (in more ways than one) is _not_ good guest behavior, and Cas knew it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to embarrass you, or myself, but I was feeling so—”

He stops, remembering that he doesn’t want Dean to know he was nervous.

“Anyway, I’m not doing it in the house. If you don’t tell everybody, it should be okay.”

Dean pauses, his thinking face on, and then he swallows.

“Alright, Alice,” he says quietly. “Bedtime.”

Cas understands that reference. He smiles a little at it, squirming his way to the side and out of Dean’s reach, just in case.

Dean’s not impressed.

“Dude,” he complains. “C’mon, I’m gettin’ cold.”

Sometimes, on colder days in the fall, they used to sit side by side against one of the walls, knees up and huddled under a blanket while they shared a book.

Cas eyes Dean, considering. Dean says he’s getting cold, but he’s still got his leather jacket on, and Cas knows he just spent two hours in a warm car. He bets Dean’s probably really _warm._

“It’s a shame I’m big instead of small,” he muses, following this line of thought a little farther than he should, “Or else I could make you carry me.”

Dean straightens, squaring his shoulders.

“You think I can’t carry you?”

It’s all Cas can do not to roll his eyes; Dean is being _absurd,_ and he hasn’t smoked a thing.

“Out of a treehouse? No, nor would I let you try.”

“Okay, but I could carry you the rest of the way once we’re out,” he tries, and Cas can’t help but picture it, Dean performing a princess carry right past every member of his family, up the stairs to the bedroom like Cas is some random damsel he’s claimed for a bride. Doubtless, there would be questions.

He fixes Dean with an amused look, certain Dean is too busy defending his ego to think of this.

“Really. After that lengthy phone conversation last week, explaining clearly and repeatedly that you and I aren't really dating, you’re going to literally sweep me off my feet and carry me over the threshold of our bedchamber?”

It comes out a little more bitter than Cas intended, and when Dean pauses a beat too long, he worries.

Then:

“Hey, I didn’t say _how_ I would carry you.”

Cas rolls his eyes, because what a typical Dean response — but when they come back down, landing on Dean’s face once again, he can’t help the smile that spreads across his own face, Dean’s green eyes twinkling back at him, one of the most welcome and familiar sights of Cas’s life.

There’s a feeling welling up inside him, warm and insistent, a feeling that’s _always_ present, but usually kept under strict control, and for once, he doesn’t have it in him to shove it back down.

Dean’s face twists oddly, all of a sudden, an expression Cas doesn’t quite recognize, but then he turns away, staring down the ladder to the ground.

“I’m not comin’ back out here for you if your stoned brain decides it wants to sleep here, alright?”

Cas huffs a laugh, the moment forgotten, and with one last look around the old treehouse, he follows.

Cas is still feeling a little overwhelmed the next day, but it’s greatly outweighed by his enjoyment.

They start the day with some light TV and then head out into the yard to play. Jo boldly suggests a game of tag, during which Cas is _thrilled_ to find he can still outrun Sam. Dean, too, is unexpectedly sprinty, considering that Cas hasn’t seen him run in years, and by the time Ellen calls them in to help set the table, their game has had a soundtrack of stomach growls for an hour at least.

Cas is responsible for at least some of that soundtrack, but once he’s back inside the house, settled in a chair at the table, discomfort rears its ugly head.

He serves himself very carefully; it’s been years since they’ve had him over, and in the event of any miscalculations, Cas doesn’t want to take more than his share.

And even if there _haven’t_ been any miscalculations, he doesn’t want to take too much advantage of their hospitality.

And aside from all of _that,_ Cas just doesn’t want to embarrass himself. He’s in the habit of eating alone or with friends who don’t care or, more recently, with Dean — and as far as Dean is concerned, there is no such thing as ‘too much’ in terms of what Cas eats and how enthusiastic he is about it.

Cas eats carefully, but it still doesn’t take him long to finish, and he sits awkwardly afterward, not sure what to do.

He _thinks_ he could probably take seconds, but he can’t be sure, and he’s resigned to waiting quietly when his plate is suddenly pulled right out from under him. He looks to Dean, surprised, but Dean just gives a dismissive wave in response.

Wide-eyed, Cas watches as he reloads Cas’s plate, with what must be twice as much food as was originally on there, a fourth of which is entirely marshmallow yams.

He sets it back in front of Cas with an authoritative nudge.

“Eat,” he instructs him.

Cas hesitates, but he can hardly try to put it back, and since Dean went through all the trouble . . .

He resumes the neat, painstaking bites of earlier, and gets an elbow to the side for his trouble.

“Like you _mean_ it,” Dean reprimands him, gaze turned skyward, and too conscious of everyone else’s eyes on them to throw something at Dean, he obliges.

Somehow, it tastes better the second time around.

Cas declines dessert, partly because he’s somewhat full, thanks to Dean’s interference, but mostly because there are two Winchester men and Jo Harvelle present, and he is once again reluctant to fuck with distribution; dessert is very serious business, and no matter how much it _looks_ like there’s plenty, he’s seen the present company perform minor miracles as they relate to consuming it.

He contents himself with admiring what’s on Dean’s plate; the lattice crust with the leaf cutouts Dean laid out last night baked beautifully.

“You want me to fix you a plate?” Dean asks, and Cas immediately shakes his head.

“No, I’m full.” Dean’s idea of ‘fixing a plate’ is clearly extravagant, which is exactly what Cas is trying to avoid.

Dean accepts this, resuming his part in conversation, and Cas listens with half an ear, occasionally returning his gaze to Dean’s plate, unable to help himself.

Without pausing his story about some obnoxious customer at the garage, Dean shoves a forkful of pie in front of Cas’s face, gesticulating with his other hand all the while.

Cas wants to be angry — and he does send a reproachful look toward Dean before taking the bite — but the pie is delicious, and some set of crossed wires in Cas’s brain lights the fuck up when Dean does shit for him, so he simmers in reluctant pleasure while the story continues, Dean steadily offering bites from his plate.

Eventually, Dean gets rather into it, requiring both hands to try and illustrate the sensation of being nagged by the customer, and Cas surreptitiously reaches for his fork.

He doesn’t quite make it. Dean halts mid-sentence, slapping Cas’s hand away.

“Dude, drink some water first. You gotta hydrate if you’re gonna eat this much.”

He lets out a huff, looking around the table and finding several pairs of eyes looking back.

“I’m not a child,” he mutters, self-conscious. Dean just snorts.

“Then stop acting like one, you big baby. Now, what was I saying? Oh, yeah — so, like, I’ve got the hood up, and I’ve already told the guy like, _four times,_ we’ll come find you in the waiting room when we know something, but he comes over and he starts asking . . .”

A little sullen, Cas drinks the full glass of water before going for the fork again, and Dean makes no move to stop him. Instead, he allows it, Cas probably leaning too far into his space and eating at least half of Dean’s dessert, and the only indication he’s aware of any of it are the periodic glances, warm and twinkling, he sends Cas’s way.

A person could get used to this, Cas thinks.

He resolves not to, and finishes Dean’s pie.

“Hello, my little birdie,” Valencia greets him, dumping herself over the back of the sofa and smoothly reconfiguring into sitting criss-cross by the time she’s landed. “What lurid gossip do you have for me?”

Cas smiles, wry. Valencia roomed with Cas for a year after she came back to the States. Cas isn’t totally sure of the circumstances under which she and his sister met and became friends, but Anna knew he had a spare room and Cas still owed her for dropping everything to come babysit him for a month that one time, so he wasn’t about to argue.

In the end, it worked out very well; Cas still sometimes resents Sam for luring her to California, but he understands. Sam is ninety-percent reasonable and just as — if not more — attractive than Dean (assuming you haven’t brainwashed yourself from pre-adolescence to favor Dean’s looks above all others) and Valencia is a magnificent human person with needs.

He suspects she _likes_ the unreasonable ten percent, at any rate.

“I think Dean and I are the bulk of lurid gossip, at the moment.”

She blinks, expectant.

“Yes, I’m aware.”

Cas narrows his eyes.

“What do you think there is to tell?”

“I don’t think anything, Cas. It’s why I’m asking. Obviously.”

This is a lie, because Valencia has a lot of ideas, about pretty much everything, but he supposes she’s being considerate.

“There isn’t, really,” he says slowly. “We’re just . . . getting by.”

“Oh. Are you?”

“What?”

“Are you, Castiel, getting by?”

Cas hesitates.

“Yes?”

She nods.

“That’s nice. You do look happy.” She pauses. “It worried me.”

Cas’s most and least favorite thing about Valencia is the fact that she knows things without being told.

To date, they’ve never had a conversation about his relationship with Dean.

“I don’t think it’s a problem,” he says carefully, although it is a problem, one that’s quickly moving to the top of his list of things to worry about.

“Those are the worst kinds of problems,” she tells him, earnest, and gives his leg a sympathetic squeeze. “For some people more than others. In fact, some people just make a problem worse because they haven’t figured out it’s a problem.”

He squints.

“That wasn’t subtle.”

“Yes, it was. You think I’m talking about you.”

“Aren’t you?”

She blinks.

“Do you actually think it’s not a problem?”

Cas refuses to answer that.

Valencia studies him for a long moment, and then smiles, eyes cryptic and bright in that maddening way of hers.

“Mario Kart with Jo?” she asks abruptly, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

“Please.”

It’s nearly midnight when they all head for bed, but despite the weirdly pleasant tiredness he feels, Cas can’t quite fall asleep; his body is weary, but his mind is stubbornly active, thoughts restless and distracted.

The lights have been off for a while when Dean suddenly turns on his side, facing him.

“Hey.”

Cas twists his head in surprise, blinking.

“Hello.” He shifts until his whole body is facing Dean, as well.

“How d’you feel?”

Cas looks at him, unsure exactly what Dean is asking, or why. He considers the question carefully, turning it over in his mind in an effort to ascertain these things, when an answer shoulders its way to the front.

He gently pushes it back; it has no place here.

But it feels disingenuous to say, “Terribly full,” or “Sleepy,” or even “Physically worn-out but mentally overactive,” or any other bland response, no matter how honest they might be, and eventually, he becomes so caught up in the mental struggle that the truth just quietly slips out.

“Like I’m home,” he whispers.

It feels like forever that Dean stares back at him, a forever weighted by the sudden deluge of things Cas _didn’t_ say, pressing against his lips like some kind of reversed kiss.

A forever in which Cas wonders about the way Dean is looking at him, if this is the moment he hears them all, anyway.

But then he smiles, relaxed and happy as he gazes warmly back.

“Yeah. Yeah, me, too. Bobby and Ellen are great; I love comin’ back here.”

Cas loved coming back here, too; but home is something that has been crowding in around him for months, inexorable in its cozy trappings, and Cas still can’t imagine having come here without _Dean_.

Eventually, he offers a tiny nod.

“They are,” he agrees, because that’s true, at least, and they lapse into silence once again.

Eventually, Cas falls asleep, lulled by Dean’s sighs and restless shifting as he tries to do the same.

Cas receives more hugs upon their departure than he thinks he has in years; much of what he tends to do with strangers or casual friends doesn’t quite count for the same, he’s realizing.

Valencia clings to him with exaggerated enthusiasm, one shoulder neatly cutting off half his air-supply.

“I love you and I’ll see you again soon,” she tells him, and then draws back, eyes intent. “And remember, you’re allowed to fly away when you need to.”

He tilts his head, frowning down at her.

“Is that an invitation to visit you?”

She sighs, resting her forehead against his shoulder.

“And to think, when your sister told me you were like this, I didn’t believe her.”

She releases him and moves onto Dean, with whom she exchanges a series of competitive grunts and shoulder-punching before moving into a real hug.

Cas is so distracted by it, he doesn’t see Sam swoop in.

Sam-hugs are very nice, though they always make Cas feel smaller than he actually is, which is less nice. Still, Cas is okay with it. Sam showed Cas how to hug in the first place, a hug that inexplicably seemed to inspire a trend of near-daily ones from Dean, and Cas will always be grateful for that.

But then Sam pulls away, and he has a vaguely troubled expression that has always spelled bad news for its intended target, and Cas tenses up.

“Hey, it was really good to see you, Cas,” he tells him, soft and earnest and oh God, what is about to happen? “You, um, you know you can call me, right? I know I’m busy with stuff, but you’re like another brother to me, so . . . don’t hesitate. I can make time.”

“Okay,” Cas says slowly, determinedly pushing back the panic he feels when Sam subjects him to a concerned, searching look. “Thank you.”

“Yeah. You’re doing alright, right? With everything?”

And there, in that moment, Cas recognizes the _specific_ version of the look Sam is giving him.

He has seen it before, most notably at the end of their senior year, when Dean made a joke, leer included, about Cas ‘being a man now.’ He remembers with cringe-inducing clarity the way Sam looked at him, the exact moment his eyes went wide and his expression shifted into basically what it is right now. _Congratulations,_ he’d said, but it came out sounding like, _I’m sorry._

They have never, ever talked about it — Cas can’t even be sure what conclusions Sam drew — and he absolutely does not want to start now.

“Yes,” Cas declares, inching back as he nods enthusiastically. “Very much alright. With all things. Thank you, Sam. If you were my brother, you would be my favorite brother.”

Sam pulls back, surprised, and then looks incredibly touched.

He hugs Cas again.

Jo and Ellen follow, leaving Cas wondering if their handshakes are anything like their hugs, and then Bobby eyes him critically.

“Alright,” he finally says. “Bring it in.”

Bobby gives nice hugs, too.

Cas definitely lied when he said it wasn’t a problem.

Pamela gives him all kinds of questioning looks in therapy, but he maintains there’s nothing to say, so he doesn’t. After all, he and Dean didn’t fight the entire weekend they were away, and though they’ve only been back a day, it has been an extremely peaceful one, all the good feelings from the holiday lingering past its end.

And it is those good feelings — and nothing else — that has Cas in unusually high spirits the next few day. He forgets to try not to laugh at Dean’s jokes, and catches himself absent-mindedly striking up conversations with Dean rather than either keeping it to himself or waiting for Dean to speak first.

Worse still, he gives in to the impulse to _do_ things for Dean. He spends Thursday night doing laundry — after unpacking Dean’s bag for him — while Dean plays a game; when Dean asks, Cas just pretends to have thought he was busy.

He forages in the kitchen desk for stamps at some point and takes a couple post items down to the mailbox, since Dean keeps forgetting.

And whenever Cas goes for coffee, or anything else, he finds Dean and asks if he wants anything while he’s at it.

It’s not good. It’s actually very bad, especially since Dean seems eager to reciprocate, and Cas knows he needs to stop, to redraw boundaries and reclaim some distance.

He _knows,_ but he can’t.

On Friday, Dean takes him to play paintball, and it’s so insanely fun, chasing each other around the course and taking their strategies perhaps a little _too_ seriously, that Cas is pretty sure it’s the best date they’ve ever been on — the best date _he’s_ ever been on, even — when it happens.

There’s the barest rustle of noise behind him, and Cas turns, ready to shoot — when Dean lurches forward, pushing his arm up and out of firing range, and topples the rest of the way into him.

They go down in a heap, struggling to keep the other person immobilized while they get a clear shot with their gun. Both weapons go skidding out of reach in the kerfuffle, Dean and Cas torn between gasps and laughter as they wrestle to get to them. A sharp elbow to Cas’s gut, just this side of painful, delays him, giving Dean time to lunge for the pile.

Cas is fast, though, and he lunges right after, throwing himself on top of Dean and seizing his arm to try and keep it away from the guns.

It would be a fine strategy, but Dean arches, trying to buck him off and close the last few inches between his hand and his gun, and all of the sudden it becomes abundantly clear that the adrenaline and happy feelings in Cas’s head have shared the love down south, as well.

Dean freezes.

In a blind panic, Cas rolls off and shoves him away, panting with exertion as he carefully angles his body away.

“Truce,” he offers stiltedly, unable to meet Dean’s eye.

“Yeah.” Dean’s voice is hoarse with effort, and without exchanging a word, they both agree the game is over.

Dean doesn’t look at him the whole way home, and Cas doesn’t even try to engage him in conversation.

Because nothing ruins paintball like surprise boners from your best platonic friend, apparently.

Dean claims the first shower, probably in an effort to get as far away from Cas as possible, because while he’s politely not mentioning Cas’s fuckup, Cas knows he’s not lucky enough that Dean didn’t notice.

He spends most of Dean’s very long shower trying to think of a way to mitigate the damage, make it so Dean can continue to be comfortable living with him. Dean’s always making cracks about how Cas will fuck anything that moves, isn’t he?

By all accounts, Dean is very animated.

And really, that’s in keeping with Dean’s estimation of Cas’s libido. It’s been about four months, now, that Cas hasn’t intimately touched another person. He and Dean were grappling, competing for something, and then there was some unfortunate friction — it’s just _biology._

(It’s Dean, of course, but Dean must never know that.)

His phone rings, startling him out of his panicked rationalization, and Cas picks up without thinking.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Cas,” Anna says, and he sags in relief. “How are you?”

“Uh. Fine. Anna, I need advice.”

There’s a pause.

“Okay. Shoot.”

He hesitates.

“Uh. What is the etiquette for, um, uh. Unexpected arousal? In — in platonic situations?”

The pause is longer this time.

“Well. I don’t — I don’t want to ask this, but I think I need more details?”

“I — it was — I haven’t, um, had time for — recreation, and the dry spell is getting to me, and I accidentally — I was wrestling with a friend during paintball, and I—”

“Ohhh.”

Cas nods, though she can’t see him. She sighs.

“Wow. That is . . . awkward.”

“Yes. What do I do to fix it?”

“Are you sure they noticed?”

Cas thinks of how they cut that last game short, and how Dean hardly said a word to him since, escaping to the bathroom the minute they got home.

“Fairly sure.”

“Oh. I guess — did you apologize? Explain?”

“No. No, we — we didn’t talk about it.”

“Are . . . you sure you need to?”

“He won’t look at me.”

Silence.

“Cas. Was it Dean?”

“ . . . maybe?”

“I see.” She clears her throat, and then says nothing.

Cas starts fidgeting with the cushion.

“Well—” she begins, and then he hears the bathroom door open.

He lurches to his feet, gripping the phone tight.

“Shhh!” he tells her.

“Cas! I need a towel!” Dean yells, and Cas winces. He completely forgot to replace them after laundry last night.

“Just a minute,” he calls back, and waits for the door to close again before he hisses into the phone.

“Anna. What do I do?”

“About what we just discussed, or is there a new situation?”

“Dean needs a towel.”

“Why does he need a towel?”

“Because he just got out of the shower and he doesn’t have one!” he explains, nearly hysterical. “And now I have to bring him one and I don’t know what to do.”

“You could bring him a towel and then finish talking to me?”

Cas shuts his eyes.

“He’s naked. What if I see something?”

“You’ve seen him naked before.”

“Not since I’ve learned to appreciate nakedness, I haven’t.” Dean wandering around in his boxers because he’s somehow _that_ oblivious doesn’t count.

“Then don’t look?”

“Yes, but — but what if it’s obvious I’m not looking, and he thinks it’s because of — of what happened? That I’m afraid if I look, it will happen again?”

“Uh. Are you?”

He hesitates.

“No.”

“Right. Then, pretend you’re focused on talking to me, and hand it to him while you tell me about . . . something. Thanksgiving. While you tell me about Thanksgiving.”

That sounds . . . very reasonable. Dean can hardly be suspicious of that.

“Okay. Just a minute.”

He stands, heading for the hallway — and turns into it just as Dean walks out of the bathroom.

Absolutely naked.

Cas freezes, shocked into stupor, and Dean seems to do the same, every single muscle in his body — his damp, utterly bare body — going taut.

They’re very nice muscles, Cas thinks dumbly, and then realizes what’s happening.

He makes a small, high-pitched noise of despair and promptly flees.

“It’s a _phone,_ Cas! It’s not like they could see me through it!” Dean yells through the front door, just as Cas slides down it into a heap on the hallway floor.

“Uh. Cas. Is everything okay?” Anna asks, and Cas blinks, taking a deep breath.

“No.”

At least he doesn’t have another boner.

Eventually (after several minutes of having to listen to Cas hyperventilate) his sister suggests he call her back.

“But what do I do about Dean?”

“Oh, that should be easy now. He just _flashed_ you, Cas. He’s going to be _so_ embarrassed; trust me, I doubt he even remembers your — well, your _situation_.”

“Really?” Cas isn’t sure he believes her.

“Trust me. Go back inside, act upset—”

“I am upset.”

“—and he’ll be desperate to square things and never have to talk about it again. I promise.”

“Anna—”

“I love you, and I’ll talk to you tomorrow or something, when it’s not so late here and you haven’t been traumatized by various penises. Good night, Cas!”

“ _Anna_ —”

The line goes dead.

Cas sighs, and reenters the apartment, hoping she’s right.

Dean awkwardly shuffles into the living room a few moments later, as Cas is flipping through the mail for the third, unseeing time, and Cas attempts a casual nod in greeting, not quite brave enough to look up.

“I’m dressed,” Dean announces, a strained huff. “And I wouldn’t have had to — you know — if you hadn’t taken so long.”

Cas forces himself to meet Dean’s eyes.

It’s a mistake; there’s something about looking right into Dean’s eyes that, bizarrely, has Cas thinking about all the other parts of Dean he just saw.

He swallows, and covers it by pursing his lips.

“It’s fine. Just, in future,” he adds, failing to keep the strain from his voice, “Please refrain from wandering about the house naked.”

Dean looks incredulous; the picture he makes is still overlaid by the tantalizing image of him, startled and utterly bare, dripping water on the hallway carpet, and a part of Cas rails against himself for making such a stupid request.

“Seriously? Dude, we’re both _guys._ Hell, we used to strip down together in the locker room on the daily.” Dean pauses. “It’s nothin’ you haven’t seen before — or are interested in seeing.”

It’s Cas’s turn to be incredulous; he looks to the floor for answers, and finds none.

Because as much as teenage Dean’s nude body could, occasionally, put teenage Cas to blush, the memories hold zero appeal for adult Cas. What Cas saw today is _absolutely_ not anything he has seen before, and he has been woefully intrigued by its possibility for _years._

“Well — exactly,” he says, hoping it sounds less feeble than he thinks. Frustration making him vindictive, he adds, “I don’t want to see that.”

“Well, good, ‘cause I didn’t mean to show it to you.”

Cas is not upset that his best friend didn’t mean to show him his dick. He’s _not,_ because that would be crazy.

“I promise not to flash you again, alright?” Dean continues, clearly agitated. “We good here?”

He sighs.

“Yes, Dean. We’re good.”

“Alright.”

There’s a heavy moment of silence, suggesting they might not be _totally_ good, but then Dean breaks it and suddenly, Cas remembers why they’re best friends.

“But I should probably still buy you dinner.” He smirks, reaching over and snagging a flier full of pizza coupons right from the stack in Cas’s hand.

Cas eyes Dean critically, pretending to think about it, but he can’t stay the smile for long.

“Alright. But I want the spinach one.”

He actually doesn’t care, but it’s worth it for the face Dean makes.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Last time I show anybody my junk, I swear to God.”

“That’s the idea,” Cas murmurs, but he can’t help but think he wouldn’t mind, not that, or a number of other scenarios involving Dean’s junk.

It’s _definitely_ a problem.

Sometimes, Cas wonders if Dean does it on purpose.

Not _consciously,_ Cas thinks — but maybe there’s some quick, spidery part of him that lurks in the dark corners of his mind, devising ways to catch Cas in its web.

Because lately, Cas is definitely feeling caught. He’s back in this place where Dean is making him _happy,_ enough that he forgets Dean has the devastating power to make him completely _un_ happy _,_ and once again he’s tripping over himself to make Dean feel the same way he does.

As far as said happiness goes, anyway.

Old habits come in sets, of course, and more often than not, these days, Cas finds himself staring.

Not that he ever _stopped,_ because whether Cas was acknowledging his own feelings or not, Dean has always been inevitably, inexplicably interesting to him, like some abstract standard by which Cas must measure everything else in life — but he did eventually figure out how to do it subtly. And yet, it seems he’s managed to forget again; Dean draws his eyes like a magnet, and sometimes Cas is staring before he even realizes he’s doing it, like his brain has decided that the default, when there’s nothing else he needs to look at, is to let his gaze slide right back to Dean.

Of course, it doesn’t help that Dean starts staring back.

They used to do this, too, when they were kids. Cas knows he always started it, but Dean would gamely catch his eye and hold it, and once Cas figured out it was kind of a strange thing for them to do, he secreted it away with a thousand other things Dean did that made Cas feel a little bit special.

It was these things, probably — the staring, the nearly possessive weight of Dean’s arm across his shoulders, like a constant, the tie-tying and the unfailing hugs goodbye — that gave Cas that hope, so secret it remained hidden even from himself, that _maybe_ Dean would one day return his feelings.

But most of those things are relics of the past, and Cas knows, now, that they were nothing more than the easy affection Dean had to offer for anyone he loved.

The staring, on the other hand . . .

It sort of feels like they’re both trying to figure something out.

And Cas does know where his thoughts tend to go, when he openly watches Dean, these days — he wonders about how easy it’s become to share a space, how considerate Dean is of him and how it seems to be less and a less of a hardship for him to be so, how they barely fight and when they do, it’s empty bickering they both seem to _enjoy_ more than anything. He thinks about how it feels like being best friends again, without the herd of elephants between them, and how Dean actually _doesn’t_ seem angry with him, anymore, to the point that Cas wonders if he has finally been forgiven for changing.

And then he remembers how hard he’s trying to train himself out of those changes, to let himself do all those little things that cause Dean to give him soft looks and pleased grins, to play along with his jokes, and to be good company without trying to maintain a safe distance — and he wonders if that’s really what has had Dean angry, if Dean knows Cas has been holding back, and now that he’s not, there’s nothing to be angry about.

It gives Cas pause. Cas — well, the bitter part of him did think Dean hated it, not being the center of Cas’s world, not having Cas roll over at the drop of a hat — but if Cas is being honest, he never did _everything_ Dean said. They had their share of petty squabbles throughout their youth, usually because of some misunderstanding or other because neither of them were good at communicating, but it happened often enough. Cas passed on many of the activities he genuinely had no interest in, and as much of his focus was dedicated to Dean, the reverse was probably true, as well.

No, mostly, Cas thought Dean didn’t like finding out the person Cas actually was, and the bulk of his hurt feelings lay in the fact that Dean apparently hadn’t known before. Cas thought Dean had this fixed, narrow image in his head, some two-dimensional version of Cas that was all quiet and dorky and laughably behind the times, a good joke to keep in your back pocket because he was relatively easygoing and so amusingly _strange._ Cas thought that Dean looked at this supposedly _new_ Cas, with his sharper way of speaking, better-developed sense of humor, and enjoyment of things Dean apparently found base and off-putting (despite not being that much different than what he himself did) and found him beneath contempt.

And that — that rejection is something Cas has never quite gotten over, because whatever he might be on the surface, he thought Dean knew him better than that, knew there was much more to him beyond all of it, and that part hadn’t changed. And it had hurt, because Cas would have assumed that part was the part that Dean actually liked.

But Dean doesn’t seem to mind him so much, now. Dean — Dean _does_ seem to like him, just fine.

Cas goes back and forth inside his head, desperately searching for the truth in it all — and he hates how hopeful he’s becoming.

Tonight, it happens when he’s working at the dining table; one moment, he’s trying to figure out how to translate a play on words, and the next, his gaze has slipped to Dean, sprawled out on the sofa, eyes bright and mouth curving into a grin as he texts on his phone.

Cas watches him for a couple of minutes before Dean pauses, then looks up, meeting Cas’s eyes.

Cas simply tilts his head, curious.

“You look happy.”

In response, Dean’s cheeks pinken a little.

He holds Cas’s gaze, but there’s something not-quite-right about his expression. Cas searches it, intent, trying to find the source.

“Uh, Katya.” Cas blinks, drawing a blank. “You know. _Dr. Sexy_ chick. We’re talkin’ about Wednesday’s episode.”

Cas suddenly wishes he hadn’t asked.

And if he thinks about it, this isn’t the first time the last month or so that he’s noticed Dean texting away, grinning at his phone, but he supposes he just assumed it was Sam or Charlie or any number of the friends Dean already has.

He feels like an idiot. Of course Dean has been fucking _happy,_ of course he’s been unusually easygoing. Had Cas just known he’d somehow left the bar with — _Katya’s —_ number, he could have saved himself many hours of — _whatever_ the hell he’s been doing.

Because this is so obviously Dean in the fledgling stages of every relationship he’s ever had, isn’t it? Good-humored and good-natured, unusually patient and unusually playful, and amidst it all, there’s a softness to everything he does, rough edges smoothed out by the magic of new infatuation.

He draws himself up, furious more with himself than Dean but ready to take it out on him, nonetheless, to point out that _sorry,_ but Dean’s going to have to fucking wait if he wants his shot with _Katya_ —

But he can’t.

Dean’s not — he isn’t doing anything wrong, and it’s not his fault Cas is a fool for him, always has been and perhaps always will be.

And Dean _has_ been happy. Is Cas disappointed that he is not, in fact, in any way the source? Yes. Does that mean he wants to ruin it?

No. No, he doesn’t. And maybe he should, maybe he’d be better off if this was that kind of love, something selfish and destructive to someone besides himself, but it’s not, and that is something Cas must simply live with.

He slumps, nodding slowly.

“Oh.” And he knows, then, what he should do. What a true friend probably would. “You know. If you want. You can . . .”

He trails off, trying to force the words out. _You can date her. I won’t tell Pamela. If you’ve met someone you think you could be happy with, you shouldn’t risk it just because of our bet._

They won’t come.

“Can what?” Dean sounds confused, and Cas bites his lip, looking down.

_Just do it._

“You can — even though we agreed—” he tries to explain, but then he makes the mistake of looking back up, and everything in him goes still.

Six months. That’s what they agreed to. And maybe this love _is_ selfish, is as harmful to Dean as it is to Cas, but looking at Dean, in that moment, Cas refuses to give up any of what was promised to him.

“Cas?”

“Never mind,” he says quickly, getting to his feet. He needs to — not be here, where Dean is. He needs to figure this out, with a clearer head, with a better heart, and he can’t do that when Dean is watching, reminding him of everything he’s scared of giving up. “I-I’m going to go for a run before dinner.”

He retreats to the bedroom to change without waiting for a response.

Cas takes the long way, crossing the bridge to the trail on the other side of the canal, and then he loops around the park over there twice. He doesn’t have a watch, but he knows he’s been gone at least three times as long as usual, enough that Dean might start to get worried if he doesn’t come back.

Nothing is any clearer by the time he returns, but as soon as he walks through the door, the Katya issue is the least of his worries.

The apartment smells like lasagna, which lifts his spirits briefly, but they come crashing down when he sees Dean.

Because Dean is waiting for him, arms folded and jaw set, propped up against the back of the sofa.

“Found something of yours,” he says, the words harsh in a way Cas is no longer accustomed to.

Cas opens his mouth to ask.

And then Dean holds up a small, rectangular tin, and he knows he doesn’t need to.

When they first met, Dean was always angry.

Cas had met a lot of kids who were whiny, or bratty, or given to tantrums, but Dean had a sullen rage that simmered beneath his skin constantly. Cas didn’t really mind it. It puzzled him, certainly, but mostly, _everything_ about Dean fascinated him.

He didn’t have a lot of experience with anger, at that point; scoldings and lectures were plenty, but actual feelings were a foreign thing in his home. Anna had dragged him to a Halloween carnival after school and bought him a sno-cone, once. The colors had been faded, washed-out rose and lavender and slate blue, crisp white and a curiously unappealing grey called Spooky-Berry thrown into the mix. He remembers thinking, strangely, that his family felt their feelings in different shades of ice.

Dean, though — whatever he was feeling, there was nothing cold about it, and Cas took every new opportunity to learn him in stride.

Eventually, though, he learned to be afraid of Dean’s anger.

Cas had never met John Winchester, had been in awe of the figure in Dean’s stories, a gruff, capable man who guided the Impala like the captain of a mighty vessel, who went wherever he wanted and bowed to no authority. Dean always said his dad would be coming back for them, but as time went by, Cas’s fear dimmed and while the longing in Dean’s voice when he told his stories still unsettled him, Cas mostly stopped believing.

John came back a few times, and never took them with him, but he did teach Cas a lesson he would never forget.

They were almost twelve the first time Cas saw John. They were coming home from the park, but a shiny black car in the driveway, its shape so different from most cars Cas was used to seeing, had Dean lighting up and racing into the house. Cas knew he should keep walking home, but he hadn’t received his usual goodbye and he was immensely curious to know what had caused that reaction, so he followed Sam inside.

There was a tall, dark-haired man in the kitchen, a glass in hand. It didn’t look like water; it reminded Cas of the amber they’d seen pictures of in science class, frail little insects caught within, perfectly intact but doomed all the same.

The only light on was the one rigged up over the stove, but even hovering in the shadows, Cas could see that Dean wasn’t smiling anymore.

“What’re you lookin’ at, boy?” the man asked, and Dean shuffled a little closer.

“Nothin’, sir. Just — I saw the Impala, and I — I thought I’d come see you.”

The man nodded, tipped back his glass, and took a drink.

“Well, son—” Cas realized, then, that this must be Dean’s Dad — “Here I am.”

Dean gave a hesitant smile, stepping into the light, and suddenly John scowled.

“Anyone ever tell you you look just like your mama?”

Cas didn’t know much about Dean’s mom, but there was something dangerous in John’s voice, like this was a bad thing, and Dean’s face crumpled.

“Y-yeah. Um, you said that before, sometimes.”

“I know what I said,” John snapped, and Dean flinched.

“Sorry, sir.”

“Jesus. Look at you,” he sneered. “Stand up straight. God, what are they teaching you, here? You oughta be turnin’ into a man about now, but you look more like a fuckin’ little churchmouse.”

Dean’s lower lip trembled, but his back snapped straight, and in that moment, Cas truly understood what _hate_ was.

John moved to take another drink, but his hand was unsteady, and the glass slipped right out of it, cracking into pieces when it hit the floor.

“God _damn_ it!” He bent down, movements clumsy.

“Dad, don’t—” Dean started, reaching out—

And then John _shove_ _d_ him back, hard enough that Dean wound up on the floor, too.

“Are you stupid, boy?” he yelled, sidestepping the glass and glaring down at Dean. “Or do you just think _I’m_ stupid? Think you know better than your goddamn _father_?”

Beside Cas, Sam began to cry.

Cas had never been more furious, and even though Dean’s Dad was big and intimidating, he couldn’t help himself. He took a step forward, not even sure yet what he was going to do, when suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder.

He looked up, and Bobby silently shook his head.

“John,” he barked, and John tore his attention away from Dean, scowling at Bobby.

“What?”

“That’s enough.”

“You don’t get to tell me—”

“When you’re in my damn house, I do,” Bobby snapped. “Ellen was nice enough to set up the sofa bed for you. Sleep it off before she changes her mind and throws you out.”

John clenched his fist, expression dark — but then he shook his head and shoved past Bobby, muttering angrily all the way.

Cas didn’t waste another second; he darted past, reaching out to help Dean off the floor.

But Dean refused. Instead, he climbed to his feet on his own, and didn’t look at Cas once.

“Are you—” Cas started, but Dean wouldn’t let him finish.

“Go home, Cas.”

“But—”

“I’m fine,” he snapped, still not meeting Cas’s eyes. “Just — go home.”

Once again, a touch to his shoulder stayed his response; Bobby’s eyes were kind, full of sympathy, but there was a warning there, too.

“You oughta head home, before your mother worries.”

Cas’s mother might have subjected him to one of her flat, critical lectures for his disobedience, but he doubted she’d ever quite make it to _worry._

He stared at Dean a long time, reluctant, but Bobby squeezed his shoulder.

“You need me to walk you?”

 _Dean always walks me home,_ he almost said, but Dean was still hunched in on himself, face rapidly turning blotchy, and Cas slumped in defeat.

“No,” he whispered. “I can make it.”

He ran the short distance home, uneasy without Dean beside him, and even once he’d been back for a while, his heart didn’t stop pounding. Over and over the scene replayed, John’s fury just as terrifying in memory as it had been in real time.

And because Cas didn’t have a lot of experience with anger, he wondered if that’s what it was like, for adults. If Dean’s sharp little remarks and brooding silences would turn into — into _that._

If someday, all the anger inside Dean would consume him, and when that day came, somebody would reach out to Dean with love, and Dean—

Dean would just shove them back.

And Cas — Cas learned to be afraid.

Cas has learned, since then, that Dean is not his father.

But there’s just enough of him in Dean, that sometimes, when Dean is angry with Cas — and not just a little pissed off, but _furious —_ he’s still afraid.

Needless to say, right now, Dean is furious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to anger issues:  
> Drunk and verbally abusive John: John drops in for a visit, drunk. He’s challenging and critical of Dean, suggesting Dean looks like his mother, in a somewhat threatening manner, and when he drops his glass and Dean tries to stop him from touching the broken glass, John shoves him back and accuses him of thinking he knows better than his father. Sam starts crying. Cas is furious, feels that he is experiencing hate for the first time, and steps forward, but Bobby appears and silently discourages him from acting. Bobby then sends John to sleep on the sofa. Cas tries to check in with Dean, to comfort him, but a clearly upset Dean firmly tells him to go home, and Bobby gently concurs. Cas is incredibly upset, and this influences his ideas about and fear of anger, particularly Dean's.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: discussion of past overdose, unhealthy coping mechanisms (alcohol), dubiously consensual kissing, discussions of how feelings factor into sex (details in the end notes), Cas disliking yellow beetles. Please let me know if I missed anything.
> 
> In which some misunderstandings are finally resolved :) Again, thank you so much for reading. This was not a fluffy story, but I hope the love came through! ♡♡♡

“You both seem very tense.”

They’re shoved up against either arm of Pamela’s sofa, as far away from each other as they can get, and Pamela surveys them with wary, perplexed eyes.

Certainly, it’s a far cry from their session last week.

Neither of them says a word.

“Okay. Well. Which one of you would like to tell me what happened this week?”

Dean rearranges himself a little, scowl so pronounced Cas can see it even though he’s not looking at him, and Cas sighs.

Still, they don’t speak.

“Alright, then. We can just sit quietly, then,” Pamela utters wryly, and decides to fill the silence with the scratch of her pen, moving furiously along the notepad

Cas would laugh if he weren’t so tightly wound; Dean _hates_ that, and it’s bound to get him talking.

“We had — a fight,” Dean says a moment later, the words stiff.

Cas snorts, and refuses to let him feed Pamela creative lies.

“Oh, really? Did we, Dean? Because I don’t remember a fight, I just remember you completely losing your shit and _yelling_ at me _all weekend._ ”

It would have been a fight, but Cas couldn’t even get a word in. Every time he so much as opened his mouth, Dean started in again.

“Yeah, well, you deserved it,” Dean says, and Cas can tell he fucking _believes_ it.

“You had no _right,_ ” he snaps back.

“Well, excuse me if I don’t wanna watch you nearly die a second time! Or, god forbid, actually do it this time!”

Cas can’t help the sound of frustration that escapes him. _Like you_ cared _the first time,_ he wants to shout, but he resists. That’s not what this is about.

“I’m not _going_ to, I fucking _told_ you, that’s old, I forgot it was there! So just — stop getting on my case, Dean! I’m not your goddamn responsibility!”

Dean made _that_ abundantly clear years ago, when this whole thing started, when he completely washed his hands of Cas when Cas needed him the most.

But Dean just _laughs._

“Yeah? You are when you can’t be responsible for yourself!”

“You’re getting mad at me over _nothing!_ ”

“Well, _maybe_ I’m still mad over when it _was_ something, did you ever think of that?”

Cas goes still, breathing hard.

Dean says it like he gave a fuck, when it happened. Like this has haunted him the same way it’s hovered behind Cas, a painful truth that cannot be reburied.

Like he ever actually cared.

Cas narrows his eyes.

“Well, _Dean,_ maybe you aren’t the only one.”

“What the hell does _that_ mean?” Dean demands, and this is why Cas hates therapy, because it leads to conversations like this, leads to Cas revealing things he has so very carefully, and at great cost to himself, kept hidden for years.

He folds his arms and stares at the floor, refusing to go any further.

The silence stretches on for a minute or more, and eventually, Pamela clears her throat.

“Would one of you like to give me some background, here?” She speaks carefully, as if addressing two upset, feral creatures.

And maybe she is.

He’s still not going to talk about it.

There’s another lengthy pause, and then Dean speaks.

“After college, this asshole partied too hard and fuckin’ OD’d. I got a call from the hospital, at _two in the morning,_ telling me—” Dean stops, jaw working. “Why was I even your emergency contact, Cas?” He pinches the bridge of his nose, voice turning oddly hoarse. “You should’ve put your sister.”

It never crossed his mind.

“She lives in England, Dean. You — you were all I had.”

But he didn’t, it turned out; not really.

“So what happened?” Pamela prompts them, and Cas just shrugs. He doesn’t know what to say.

“There’s not much else to say. Cas lived, said he quit doing it—”

“And I _did,_ ” Cas interrupts, desperate for Dean to understand _that,_ at least, that whatever Dean may think of Cas’s present vices, they don’t include something that nearly ended him for good.

Dean just keeps talking, like he didn’t hear, like he did all weekend.

“But I found one of his fucking kits last week, and if he thinks I’m going through that again, he’s got another thing coming.”

Cas could cry from frustration.

“God, Dean, how many times do I have tell you—”

“You don’t, because I won’t believe you.” And Cas can tell Dean means it, that there’s nothing Cas can say and no way he can say it that will make Dean listen.

It’s infuriating, and Cas hits back.

“Oh, fuck off, Dean. You know, it’s amazing to me how _self-righteous_ you get over this, while we all just politely ignore your inherited alcoholism. Because it’s not like _that_ ever killed anybody,” he adds, and beside him, Dean’s hands clench into fists.

“Don’t talk about my dad.”

“Why not?” Cas smiles, a cold, spiteful thing he’s too angry to be ashamed of. “I’m pretty sure you _don’t talk about him_ enough for all of us.”

“Uh,” Pamela interjects, glancing between them, but she doesn’t get a chance to intervene.

“First of all, fuck you. Second of all, really? I’m not a fucking alcoholic. In fact, you might have noticed me barely drinking at all the past few months—” he pauses, eyes hard “—because I can be a reliable boyfriend. Unlike you, who’s such a fucking mess that even if you do talk someone into trying a relationship with you, they’ll never be able to trust you. And I’m not talkin’ about cheating.”

Cas’s jaw drops. He wasn’t expecting it. He should have been, but he wasn’t.

The way the walls shake when he slams the door behind him is a cold comfort, but he’ll take it.

A little over five years ago, Cas woke up in a hospital.

The first thing he felt, when he realized what must have happened, was _shame._ However unhappy Cas might have been, however lost and alone he might have felt, however much it may have hurt to see Dean move on from him (to a _boyfriend,_ no less), that was not a good reason to do what he did.

And no, he didn’t do it on purpose; but it wouldn’t have happened if he weren’t being careless. Grieving the loss of your dearest friendship was one thing; nearly killing yourself over it was going too far. Dean wasn’t worth that, not because of anything about Dean, but because _no one_ was worth that.

That knowledge did not make it any easier to accept the emptiness of his hospital room when he regained consciousness, or the fact that it continued to remain empty.

For nine months, Cas hadn’t heard from Dean. It should not have been a surprise.

But they were friends before that, for a lot longer than nine months, longer than nine _years,_ and Cas knew Dean must have gotten the call.

So he waited.

Charlie came to see him, and Jo, and Garth, and Benny and Liz, and Charlie even set up a Skype call with Sam. His sister flew back from London, arriving just in time to wait with him through discharge and drive him home.

For a month, Anna stayed with him. It took Cas’s body a little bit of time to recover from what he’d done to it, because aside from the overdose, he’d been mistreating it for months — but mostly, he thinks she stayed to make sure Cas was sorted out on the inside, that whatever had led to this, accident or not, would not repeat itself.

Still, Dean didn’t come, and after the first two weeks, when Charlie let slip that Dean was taking his boyfriend to Thanksgiving at Bobby’s, Cas finally accepted that he wasn’t going to. His best — and oftentimes only — friend, for over half his life, the friend who’d held him through the worst times and kept him laughing through the best, didn’t even care that he’d almost died.

If Cas thought how he felt when Dean moved out, without explanation, was the worst he’d ever felt — well, it paled in comparison to this.

And then, a few days before Anna left, he appeared.

Cas isn’t stupid. He knows his sister went to see him, probably guilted him into coming, even though Cas hadn’t mentioned him once since she picked him up at the hospital. But even if Anna had never ended up coming back from London, not for any great length of time, she’d kept in close contact, and she knew Cas well enough to know what he was too proud to ask for.

He still resented it; if Dean was somehow done with him, just like that, had outgrown him or just grown tired of him or _whatever,_ Cas would get through it. So what if he’d fucked up a little along the way? The last thing he wanted was Dean’s pity.

“Who is this?” he'd asked when he saw Dean, just out of spite. If Dean had bothered to come visit, or even fucking _call,_ he’d know Cas was in full possession of his wits and memories, but the look on his face when Cas said it made it clear he didn’t.

It wasn’t enough, not nearly, to make up for everything. But Cas was weak, and he wanted his best friend, and even though Dean didn’t care as much as Cas did, barely seemed to care at all, Cas decided it was a start.

So he let Dean in, and when Anna was gone and Dean kept coming back, Cas kept letting him, and eventually, they were friends again.

It wasn’t like when they were kids, wasn’t even like when they were in college — but it was something, and Cas couldn’t help but treasure it.

Still, it was different, most noticeably in the way they fought. They seemed to bicker constantly, and if Dean looked on judgmentally but bit his tongue in college, there was nothing stopping him after all of that. Any little thing he had a problem with, he’d start something over it, and Cas, increasingly resentful and oversensitive, was always ready to finish it. Dean was always critical, now, and Cas was past the point of trying to moderate his behavior in an attempt to change that, and thus, they arrived at their new normal.

It’s been five years like that, and Cas thought they’d resolved it, or at least come to terms with what _couldn’t_ be resolved.

Apparently, he was wrong.

The next week is one of the most awkward of Cas’s life, filled with angry silences and bitter tension, and if Cas weren’t so busy contributing his fair share to this new domestic hell, he would have been waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It drops like a boot to the ass Saturday night.

Dean doesn’t come home after work, and by nine o’ clock, Cas is mostly convinced he won’t be coming home at all. He could be at a friend’s, getting drunk and bitching about Cas, but Cas is pretty sure Dean’s angry enough that he doesn’t want kind company, wants to fuck himself up with liquor until every good feeling he has has burnt away and he’s just one raging inferno, validating all the bad in drunken triumph.

Where it will lead him by the night’s end, Cas couldn’t say, but home is increasingly low on the list.

Thus, it’s a surprise when there’s a _thunk_ against the apartment door not long after, and a moment later, Dean stumbles in.

Cas gets to his feet without thinking, even though this isn’t his problem — Dean would probably say he _caused_ this problem — and he’s bound to make it worse. But Cas is angry, too, and he’s spent the last hour trying out Dean’s favorite method of coping, and all together, it’s nudged him just past the point of caring.

He hovers a few feet away while Dean strips out his coat, and with every motion, the unmistakable scent of whiskey wafts toward him.

“You reek, Dean,” Cas informs him, unable to help himself (and perhaps a little stuck on the undeserved weekend of yelling about drugs he wasn’t even doing). “Did you drink the _entire_ bar, or just most of it? Because it’s not like either would prove my point.”

And maybe it’s been too long since he’s seen Dean like this — maybe he’d forgotten how to gauge just how far gone Dean _was —_ because as soon as the words are out, he knows it was a mistake.

Dean fixes him with a dark, unfathomable stare, and starts toward him.

Cas backs up — this was not the kind of confrontation he was expecting — but Dean just follows, and the only reason Cas stops is because there’s a wall preventing him from going any further.

Dean closes the remaining distance, and Cas flinches, heart hammering, when he dips his head.

He can feel the tip of Dean’s nose, a small brush against his throat, as Dean inhales deeply in its hollow, and involuntarily, he shivers.

When Dean pulls away, he’s smirking.

“You’ve been drinking, too, asshole,” he mutters, half-lidded eyes fixed somewhere around Cas’s chin, and Cas exhales, angling himself away. There’s not much he can do while maintaining any kind of space between them.

He could push Dean back, of course; then he’d have plenty of space to maneuver away, to remove himself from a situation he wasn’t prepared for and should want no part in. He’s not sure why he doesn’t.

It’s instinct, he tells himself. When you run, predators chase you; sometimes your best bet is to just . . . stay put.

So Cas stays there, pressed against the wall, Dean’s breath warming his skin, and tries to think of something to say that won’t make things escalate.

All the while, Dean just watches.

Until he apparently comes to some kind of decision, and before Cas can finish locating his words, Dean is leaning in, and then — and then -

And then Dean’s kissing his neck, hot and open-mouthed, and it’s the last thing Cas was expecting. He makes a noise, of surprise, of instinctive pleasure, and is rewarded by the sharp, fleeting pressure of Dean’s teeth on his skin before the area is enveloped in wet heat as Dean sucks, hard.

Cas can’t help the shudder that courses through him, and his hand creeps up, hovering while he struggles not to lose himself to sensation, because no matter how good this feels, this isn’t right—

“Dean,” he manages, breathless, and that must be the new magic word, because as soon as the sound touches Dean’s ear, he’s moving, bringing his lips to Cas’s and kissing him, a venture of ruthless strategy, rough and overwhelming in the best of ways and—

And _not right._

Cas shoves him back.

“ _Dean,_ ” he snaps, awareness flooding back in. “What the fuck are you _doing_?”

If anything, Dean looks _angry_.

“Come on,” he says, the words harsh and just as wrong as everything else in this situation. “It’s been _months,_ Cas. We’re allowed if it’s with each other, right? I know I’m getting real sick of my right hand, and you must be, too, so just — let’s do this.”

His words sink in like stones, and Cas stumbles in his haste to draw away, horror churning in his gut. At long last, Dean has decided to give Cas exactly what he thought he wanted — under circumstances he can’t bear to accept.

“No,” he chokes out, frantic, and Dean has the audacity to laugh, sharp and humorless and completely out of place in this disaster.

“Seriously? You — you’re not picky, man, and unless we’re not friends anymore, it’s not like you hate me, so — so _what_?” he demands. “What about me is so repulsive you’ll fuck just about anybody else who bothers to ask, but after months of celibacy you can’t stand the idea of touching _me_?”

Cas crumples. It’s all so fucking wrong, what Dean’s trying to do, what he’s asking, what he clearly thinks is happening here; it’s nothing to him, nothing except a bruised ego because Cas won’t play ball, when _Dean_ is the one who refuses to see what Cas can no longer kid himself isn’t obvious.

And Dean is still watching him, expression twisted up into a mess Cas has neither the energy nor expertise to untangle, but Cas has no idea what to say.

So he doesn’t. Instead, he turns on his heel and rushes out of the apartment without another word.

In the end, he realizes something obvious, himself.

This was a bad idea, and he was wrong to think he could handle it, that their friendship could survive it.

And even if it’s too late, now, one thing is clear: their time is up.

“I’m sorry things didn’t work out,” Pamela tells him, a week after Cas has texted Dean his message of forfeit, and he pretends not to understand.

“You win some, you lose some, as they say.”

There’s a lengthy pause.

“Castiel,” she says quietly, and he tenses. “I am not strictly a couple's therapist.”

“I’m aware.”

“And I gather — and this isn’t criticism, mind you — that you sometimes struggle to speak.”

_Try all the time._

“You’re not wrong.”

“But I do think you have things you want to say. And I believe that, in many cases, you were not comfortable trying to say those things while Dean was present.”

“Dean is a difficult person.”

She chuckles.

“I think we all are.”

“Well, then he’s especially difficult to me.”

“We could talk about that, if you wanted. If you don’t, that’s certainly alright. But my office is open.”

Cas frowns.

“Is this a cold-call?”

Pamela laughs again.

“No, Castiel. Honestly, I wasn’t planning on charging you unless you decided to see me long-term. Think of it like a complimentary post-bet service.”

Cas hesitates. He doesn’t feel much like talking, right now. In fact, the only reason he answered her call at all was because she woke him up from a nap and he was too groggy to remember he didn’t want to speak to anyone.

It’s three in the afternoon, but Meg and Tracy’s spare room has phenomenally effective blackout curtains, and it’s just wasteful not to take advantage.

“Do I have to decide now?”

“Oh, no. You have time. You _need_ time,” she adds, and the sympathy is unmistakable, now. “I’ve been there.”

Cas is pretty sure Pamela is not talking about losing a bet.

He wants to be angry, but he’s burnt out on feelings, so he thanks her and promises to be in touch.

Cas doesn’t see Dean until a week before Christmas.

He debated not going to their friend group’s next regular meetup, specifically so he wouldn’t _have_ to see Dean, but everyone has holiday plans and he’s unlikely to see anyone until New Year’s if he waits.

Hopefully, it won’t be an issue. Dean never answered Cas’s last text or said anything about Cas moving out while he was at work, even though he must have seen it for the cowardice it was. Cas isn’t sure if that means he’s pissed or just doesn’t give a fuck.

The fact that Dean ignores him at the bar doesn’t make it any clearer, and Cas is quiet the first hour, wondering if it’s better or worse to say anything.

This — this was never what he wanted. And he’d been afraid, at the start of the bet, that things might end up like this, but he could never have predicted why. Right up until Dean found that last, forgotten kit, and even before Dean came home wasted and convinced their friendship could survive meaningless sex (and he certainly made it clear it would be meaningless) Cas really thought they’d make it through this, and possibly even come out better for having done it.

Instead, he’s once again stuck wondering if he should have just gone with it, if he should have kissed Dean back and followed through on whatever drunken whim struck him, if maybe they’d actually still be speaking. What’s one more hurt piled up at Cas’s door? He’s lived with so many, for so long; can he honestly say he couldn’t handle it, if this was the alternative?

He doesn’t know. But he does know that it felt like he _couldn’t._ He does know that he _hasn’t_ been handling it, any of it. The last five months have completely fucked with his head, with the very foundations of what he’s struggled to build for years, and he was a blind fool to ever have agreed to this in the first place. Even if things kept on like they had after Thanksgiving, even if they’d made it through that last stretch and over the finish line, and this precious new dynamic lasted — there would be consequences to that, too.

Ones that Cas still couldn’t handle, because he’s just — at the end of the day, he’s _broken_. And maybe he can’t be fixed, but maybe it’s also time he started avoiding the thing that most emphasizes the cracks.

In reality, it was stupid to ever think he could feel that way about Dean and still be his friend, still have him in his life. Meg had tried to tell him, ten years ago, but he didn’t listen well enough, selfishly tried to hold on even while he told himself he was letting go.

It’s time, he thinks, to actually do it.

So he doesn’t look at Dean, and he doesn’t speak, and he tells himself that this — all of this — is for the best.

And then, of course, someone asks about the bet.

“So — you guys aren’t still doing that thing, right?” It’s Victor, casual as you please, like he didn’t just drop a live grenade in the center of the table. Cas tenses.

“No,” he answers tersely, before Dean can make some unfunny, offensive joke about it. He tries a smile, but it feels all wrong on his face. “Dean earned an early victory.”

Cas didn’t think he could fail in a relationship by caring too much about it, but he supposes Dean was right; he doesn’t know anything.

However, instead of the table sensing awkwardness and politely moving on, Dean finally addresses him.

“It’s funny,” he says, conspicuously unamused. “’Cause you’re the one who accused _me_ of finding excuses to walk out.”

So Dean _has_ been angry. About what, though? Is he angry about how he won? Or is his ego still suffering because Cas refused him?

It doesn’t really matter, though, because Cas is still kind of angry, too.

“You do,” he insists. “You always have.”

“Sure, like when?” And Dean — Dean has the nerve to sound _confident,_ righteous in his bitterness, like he’s genuinely forgotten what he did.

And after years of careful sidesteps, of full-on pretending it never happened, like it wasn’t alive and breathing in the room with them every time they fought, Cas finally says something.

“Like when you left _me_!”

Dean looks just as shocked.

“Left you _when_?” he demands, but he looks at Cas like he’s really asking, _Are we seriously doing this_?

Cas makes up his mind. The answer is _yes,_ because Dean owes him this, and the writing on the wall says this might be his last chance to get it, because after this—

“In college. You just — left.”

For a split second, Cas thinks he looks guilty — but then it’s gone, and all that’s there is pure, immoderate fury.

“Wow, Cas. I didn’t think you noticed.”

Like anything Cas did had the power to effect or hurt Dean, when it was clear Dean had just fucking washed his hands of Cas and didn’t even care enough to stay and watch the mess pour down the drain.

Like it wasn’t _obvious,_ if you were paying any attention at all, what it was doing to Cas.

“I did nothing _but_ notice, Dean!” he snaps, and Dean recoils a little, eyes wide. “I noticed and noticed and _noticed,_ until it drove me so crazy I couldn’t stand being sober enough to _keep_ noticing, and look where the hell _that_ got me!”

His mouth falls open.

“What the fuck _,_ Cas? Are you — are you seriously trying to say it was _my_ fault you almost died? Because I did not do that. You did that to yourself.”

“I did.” Cas nods. Dean is right, and Cas lives with the shame of that weakness every day. “I did. But that doesn’t change the fact that you _left_ me, for no reason I’ve ever been able to understand, and it — it sure as hell didn’t help.”

Of course, Dean’s already shared his feelings on this topic, and Cas doesn’t need to hear them again.

He pushes at his line in the booth until they scramble to clear out and let him free, and then he heads for the exit.

He’s not really expecting Dean to come after him.

Any other time, he’d be waiting for it, because Dean either hates unfinished business or needs the last word, take your pick, and he almost always comes after Cas.

But they’ve spent the last five months upending all their careful patterns, and while Cas thought he knew what their friendship looked like when it was already dead, he still has no experience with what it does when it’s still in the middle of dying.

Still, he’s not that surprised when Dean drops down onto the curb next to him.

“Hey,” Dean mumbles, just as a truck drives by. Cas keeps his gaze on the trees across the road, ignores Dean for a moment while he sorts out his thoughts.

It would appear they’re going to talk about it.

Cas doesn’t really know where to begin; it’s hard to figure it out, with the end looming over them like it is.

“Hello, Dean,” he says eventually. Dean studies him for a moment.

“So, um. Things aren’t — great with us, right now.”

Cas can’t hold back the snort. What a fucking understatement.

“Things haven’t been great with us in years, Dean. If they even ever have been.”

That prompts a frown.

“Yeah, they were. Didn’t you think so?”

Did he? Once, maybe. In hindsight, though, even then—

Cas turns toward Dean a little.

“When?”

“You know. Before, um. Before college. When we were kids. Things were pretty good. Come on, you agreed, in therapy, that — it wasn’t always like this.”

Cas sighs. Dean is an unreliable narrator, his story constantly changing to suit him, and Cas wishes he could be sure of the truth.

“If I recall, you were the one who said they were.”

“I lied,” Dean admits, blatantly unapologetic. “Seriously, dude, you know that kind of thing — talkin’ about feelings, and — and stuff, I, uh, I have a hard time. But I’m being honest, now. Things were alright, back in the day.”

“But not great,” Cas points out, quiet, and Dean doesn’t have an answer for that

Cas watches a yellow beetle drive by, and in spite of the drama, makes a face. Why these abominations persist in being produced and driven, he will never know.

“Really, man?” Dean sounds incredulous. “We’re havin’ a heart to heart and you’re thinking about how ugly that car is?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Cas protests defensively — if he didn’t have absolute proof to the contrary, he’d worry Dean could read his mind — and Dean laughs.

“Didn’t have to.”

The silence is nicer, this time. Fear and hostility have subsided, each of them reminded that they know each other, that neither of them really want to be fighting.

That’s important, Cas decides. He’s upset with Dean — with the situation in general — but he’s mature enough to admit that, more than anything, Dean is probably just reacting right now.

That a _lot_ of the time, Dean is just reacting to what he senses in Cas, because Cas — well, perhaps Cas isn’t always fair.

And suddenly, Cas understands why, as much as he hates fighting with Dean, as much as he hates Dean being angry with him, he still insists on trying to provoke him. For years, he’s written it off as a way of asserting himself, of avoiding the trap of Dean’s approval, of maintaining a distance necessary to his own well-being.

But that’s not it. At the end of the day, it’s because _Cas_ is angry, has been angry for years, cursed with a love that does not die or cease and will never be returned, and as irrational and unfair as it is, some part of him wants to punish Dean for it.

He closes his eyes. This, he supposes, is why they’ve reached this point, why there’s really no future for their friendship beyond it. They were fools to ever think there could be.

And if that’s the case — if a decade of suffering is finally at its end, if they’re both to be released from its hold — maybe it’s time Cas explained himself.

“The first time I had sex felt amazing,” he says. Dean’s brows lift.

“Okay. Uh. That’s — that’s good, but I’m not sure how it’s—”

“I didn’t lie about that,” Cas continues. He stares at his shoes, curling his big toe until the fabric forms an arch. “You see — it was a relief, to me, that I liked it so much, because I thought it meant that I had grown out of it.”

“Grown out of what?”

“You. How I felt about you.”

The words come out easier than Cas expects, but it doesn’t change the fact that finally admitting this, unable to know how Dean will respond to it, makes him want to run and hide.

“How you — what — you — oh.” Cas can’t even begin to interpret his tone.

“Yes. ‘Oh.’” His hands shake, and he tucks the one nearest to Dean in his pocket. “I hadn’t — when you told me, at that party, to go sleep with Meg, I was—” He breaks off. “I don’t think I can explain how that felt. The idea made me sick.”

He can see Dean swallow.

“I’m sorry.”

Cas shrugs, like it’s no big deal, even though it was — _is —_ huge, to him.

“It took me a while, but after a year or so, I was determined to — to move on. I hung out with Meg, and other people. I — stopped living in your pocket. I tried a lot of new things, some I liked, some I didn’t, and I guess — I decided sex should be one of them, because — when you pushed me at her like that, I had to come to terms with the fact that I’d die alone if I waited around for you.”

“I — Cas, you should’ve said somethin’, I didn’t—” Dean starts to say, and Cas shakes his head. He already knows.

“You wouldn’t have wanted to hear it, Dean. It would have made you uncomfortable, and when you get uncomfortable, you avoid, and while I may have been . . . _upset,_ that my feelings were not reciprocated, I didn’t want to lose you.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean repeats, and while it doesn’t change anything, was never what Cas wanted to hear from him, he can still appreciate the sentiment.

He shrugs again.

“You didn’t know. I mean, I don’t know how you missed it,” he can’t help but add, “Because I was embarrassingly _obvious,_ but such is your nature.”

“Hey—” Dean starts, and Cas bites back a smile.

“Anyway,” he continues, a little calmer inside. “The sex — the sex part was very nice. And yes, I was relieved to see the end of my — my crush. But it was disappointing, too.”

“How so?”

“I wasn’t expecting to like it. It was something I decided to make myself do, but I was sure I wouldn’t. I had always thought — feelings mattered, when it came to sex. At least, that they did for me. I thought I couldn’t enjoy it with someone el—someone I didn’t love,” he corrects himself. He thinks he can be forgiven for downplaying just how devotedly he had loved Dean. “I thought that was what would make it special,” he sighs. “But no. I found I could enjoy it with a _number_ of people I didn’t love. Several of them at once, even. Feelings just . . . didn’t count for anything.”

“Well — I wouldn’t — I wouldn’t say that,” Dean says, stumbling over the words.

“Hm?” This must be an important point, for Dean to argue it when he’s so clearly uncomfortable.

“I — I’m obviously a big fan of the anonymous bar sex myself, but, uh. That doesn’t mean — when it _is_ someone you love, that it’s not . . . nice. More nice, sometimes. Whatever.”

Cas nods, a little lost.

“Yeah. I figured that out.”

“Yeah? Uh, when — when was that?” Dean’s voice comes out high, strained. Cas would find his efforts to treat this like a normal conversation amusing if he weren’t the other participant.

“Oh.” He briefly debates lying or trying to change the subject, but — that would defeat the purpose, he supposes. “When you tried to kiss me at that party.”

Dean makes an odd, choking sound.

“Uh,” he manages. “Um, what — what party?”

Cas angles his head, squinting a little as he studies Dean’s expression.

“You really don’t remember?”

It’s not that he wasn’t glad, thinking Dean had forgotten, but every now and then, he wonders.

“Um. I — I don’t think I do?”

Cas searches his face, frowning. There’s something strange about it all, enough that he wonders once again.

“Well, you were drunk,” he tells him, carefully watching for his reaction. “I sat next to you on the sofa, and you — leaned forward, I guess, and I was confused, but you kept leaning, and I leaned back because if I didn’t we would have kissed. And then I realized that’s what you were trying to do, and I fell over.”

“Uh.”

And the way that one noise comes out — he’s now _positive_ Dean is lying.

His eyes narrow.

“Come on, Dean. You must remember. It was one of the parties I threw before Winter break.”

“Which one?” Dean has the audacity to ask.

“The one—” Cas starts, and suddenly it hits him, stealing his breath. “The one right before you moved out.”

Dean’s lying, right now, because he doesn’t want to talk about this, because—

Because all this time, Cas has tried to understand why Dean felt like he had to move out, has even tried to put it in the context of why, in his drunk and uninhibited state, his instinct was to kiss _Cas —_ but he’s been looking at it all wrong.

Dean didn’t move out for some convoluted, unfathomable reason.

Dean didn’t even move out for the same reason he tried to kiss Cas.

Dean — Dean moved out _because_ he tried to kiss Cas. Full stop.

The air caught in Cas’s lungs feels like lead when he tries to push it out.

“Oh. That one. Yeah, I guess that — sounds familiar. Gosh, I was really drunk,” Dean rambles, completely full of shit, and Cas cannot believe he still feels weird about it, that something so _stupid_ was all it took to make him run away and stop talking to his best friend.

Cas just looks at him, profoundly disappointed.

“Is that why—” he starts, though the answer is all over Dean’s face.

“No, no, come on, we talked about this with Pam, remember?” Dean insists, but his desperation is just further evidence.

“I would have pretended it hadn’t happened. I knew you didn’t mean anything by it. You didn’t have to leave me over something like that,” he tells him, the words uneven and shaky. He knows he’s lost control of the conversation he meant to have, but he doesn’t care.

Dean covers his face with his hand.

“No, that wasn’t—”

“It — it didn’t even happen, Dean,” Cas interrupts, because he _needs_ to understand just how _fucking stupid —_ “I stopped you. There wasn’t even anything to discuss, it wasn’t even a drunken mistake because it didn’t get that far. How could you walk out on me over — over _that_? I wouldn’t have said a word, I — _I stopped you,_ Dean. Did you not trust me?”

“No, it wasn’t—“ he tries again, but there’s nothing Dean can say that will fix this, because Cas suffered for ten fucking months, completely cut off, and then suffered just a little more ever since, for something as meaningless and insignificant as _that_ _._

He gets to his feet, sitting still beyond him at this point.

“You were _drunk,_ and it _didn’t even happen!_ Dean, do you — do you even _understand_ what it did to me when you left? Do you get how _hard_ that was for me, to realize that all my other friends were more your friends than mine, that the people I had over and partied with could have been anyone, for all they mattered, that — that _you were all I had?_ Except — except you were _gone.”_

“Cas—” Dean holds up a hand as he stands, but Cas refuses to be calm about this. He _can’t._ Dean doesn’t even know, how hard it was, how awful it felt, especially when-

“And all of that, that was after you tried to kiss me, and I realized that I—” Cas wants to fucking cry. He takes a deep breath, pushing a hand through his hair as he tries to collect himself. “You know, I — it felt like you ruined my _life_ , Dean.”

“What?” Dean looks totally lost, a little hurt mixed in, and how _dare_ he be this _obtuse._ “How did I—”

“You ruined my life, because _everything_ I grew up wanting from it, I wanted with _you._ But you didn’t feel the same, so instead I ended up with a million different cheap substitutes because I am so broken I can’t seem to want anyone else. And the only thing that made it bearable was that you were at least _there —_ until you weren’t.”

“But — I thought — you said, when you slept with Meg, you realized you were — you were over it—”

“ _I thought I was!_ ” Cas is just shy of yelling, now, and his voice echoes across the half-empty lot. He hunches, ashamed, but he doesn’t know how to handle this, let alone be reasonable about it. “I really — I thought I was. But it was all just — I was naive, I had bought into all the — the hallmark _bullshit_ about what love was. I was sad because I’d never have you, and then I thought once I accepted that, once I could be with other people, it meant I must have moved on. And then you — you _left,_ like that, and I realized I _did_ have you, Dean, in all the ways that actually counted, that you don’t need to hold hands and mutually declare your love or even fuck somebody to be with them and that regardless of — of whatever commercial romantic illusions I bought into as a teenager, we were together. We were _always_ together. And then you were gone and we weren’t and it _fucked me up._ ”

And Cas — Cas has never recovered. Cas is just this warped, twisted castoff, now, and even once Dean came back and he tried to be satisfied with what few scraps of affection their friendship could still muster, even as he struggled to stay on his side of a wall he deliberately built to protect himself, he was still irreversibly damaged by Dean’s absence, and it feels like absolutely nothing’s changed.

“If that — if that’s true, if you really — then why didn’t you let me kiss you?” Dean asks, as if that has any fucking relevance here, as if they’re not talking about the answer _at this very moment._

Cas stares.

“Why didn’t I — Dean, how can you even _ask_ that? Do you — do you even understand why we’re having this conversation? Why I’m telling you _any_ of this?”

“No!” Dean explodes. “I don’t! I don’t understand anything right now, okay, Cas? So _explain it to me!_ ”

Cas can’t hold back a noise of pure frustration. How can he be any _clearer_?

“ _Dean._ I’m — I — this is me asking you to understand _why_ I can’t keep — _doing this_!”

“Doing _what?_ What _are_ we doing here, man? Because I have _no idea._ ”

_Then you’re an idiot._

Cas doesn’t say it, though, just buries his face in his hands, because this is hard enough as it is without Dean needing it broken down and spelled out for him even more.

Finally, he raises his head, meeting Dean’s eyes. Dean just gazes back, anxious and agitated and looking as desperate for answers as Cas has been.

“Dean, I couldn’t let you kiss me.”

“Why _not?_ Is it like — even though you had — feelings, you just — weren’t attracted to me? Is that it?”

And that’s just — how does he even come _up_ with these things?

“Jesus Christ, Dean, almost anybody who’s attracted to anything in the primate family is attracted to you.”

“What?”

“No, really, when we went to the zoo in the eleventh grade, there was a gorilla—” Cas starts, because it was one of the weirdest things in his _life,_ especially that he was sober for, seeing the way that gorilla trailed along the fence line, staring at Dean like—

Dean interrupts him.

“I don’t give a fuck about the gorilla, Cas! _Tell me why you didn’t want me_!”

“That’s what I’m trying to say, you ass!” Cas is almost yelling again, but he doesn’t care. “I _did_ want you, of course I wanted you! Even when I thought I’d gotten over you, I still had _eyes._ I never stopped thinking you were beautiful. But the idea that you — that we’d kiss, or even — I _couldn’t._ It hit me like a ton of bricks, that I _wasn’t_ over you, not even a little, and for us to do — _whatever_ it was you were drunk enough to want from me, but it not _mean_ anything to you? Or — or never happen again? Or even freak you out and make you _avoid_ me?” He laughs, unbelievably bitter. “It was bad enough to realize I still had feelings for you. I certainly didn’t want to find out that sex with anyone else wasn’t as good. Then what would I do with my time?”

Dean gawks, and Cas goes for broke.

“Of course, you did end up avoiding me, and then I had to cope with knowing my feelings for you had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with _you,_ being you and being _there._ ”

And just — what a fucking mess. This is so far beyond what Cas had planned on talking about, but when has anything ever gone to plan where Dean was concerned?

“Fuck. Cas,” Dean whispers, looking vaguely panicked, which Cas supposes is reasonable. Finding out your best friend of over fifteen years has been in love with you for a good chunk of that must be a doozy.

It’s not like there was anything left to ruin, though, was there? They might as well, finally, get this over with.

“I know. It’s fucking pathetic,” he admits. “I should have let you do whatever you wanted. At least you might have stayed.”

“Jesus, Cas, you — I moved out because I was _humiliated,_ and — and — hurt.”

Cas gives him a tired glare, although he’s not surprised. Dean’s ego is directly proportional to his deep, hidden insecurity, and of course he thinks it has just as much a place as Cas’s actual heartbreak.

“Though I stand by my previous statement regarding your attractiveness, I can’t believe I’m the only person to ever turn you down. I don’t see how it was such a blow to your ego you had to _move out._ ”

More than ever, Cas wishes he’d just let it happen. Maybe Dean _could_ have stayed, then. Maybe they wouldn’t be here, now.

Dean seizes his wrist, urgent.

“Dude, stop it — just — just _listen,_ okay? You — I tried to kiss you, and you shot me down.”

“Dean, I told you why—”

“Yeah, and I’m telling _you_ it would have been _fine!_ ”

Cas blinks, looks down at the hand closed around his wrist, brow creased as he tries and fails to follow the logic, logic which looks suspiciously like _selfishness._

“In what way would it have been _fine,_ Dean? For you, maybe, but even if you’d stayed, I would have been right back where I was in high school—”

“It would have been _fine,_ because _I_ was in love with you, too, dumbass! _That’s why I left!_ ”

It’s like the words hit the soft dome of Cas’s brain only to slide back down the sides, resting limply beside it. There’s no way Cas is understanding them right, understanding them at _all._

“What?” he whispers, hoping Dean will somehow make them make better sense.

Dean looks deeply pained.

“I left because you — you told me you weren’t ever gonna date someone, because you didn’t have feelings for people, and it — fuck, it broke my heart, but I knew you at least liked fucking people, so I thought I could at least have that, sometimes, or even just the once, but you didn’t even want _that_ from me, and — and — I couldn’t just keep living with you after that, not when you probably _knew_ —”

“I _didn’t_!” Cas is definitely shouting now, but he thinks he _does_ understand, and it’s still all Dean’s fucking fault, but maybe it’s a little bit his own, too, and blame is irrelevant because — because _he had his chance._ He had it, and he didn’t even realize it, and now it’s — it’s _gone._ “God _damn_ it, Dean, I didn’t, I didn’t know anything! All I knew is that you were my best friend and suddenly you wanted _nothing_ to do with me!”

“I’m sorry, okay?” Dean chokes out, just as upset as Cas is, which makes sense, if what he’s saying is true. “But from where I was sitting, you made it clear you didn’t want me, and I couldn’t deal with it.”

“You should have told me,” Cas insists, and it’s a new, unfamiliar grief filling him now, a grief that’s not about what he can never have, but what he _could_ have had, if they had just somehow managed to — “Dean, that isn’t fair, you know I don’t — I don’t get these things. I _can’t_ tell, I have to be told, or else I don’t know. Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

“Because _you_ know I’m not good with — with talking! I couldn’t tell you, not if I didn’t think you felt the same way.”

“ _I was fucking obvious!_ I thought the only reason you _couldn’t_ see it was because that was the last way you were thinking of me!”

Ten months. _Ten months,_ and all the years that followed. If only Dean had just — if _Cas_ could have just—

He wants to cry. Because Dean — once upon a time, Dean was in love with him, too. And Cas somehow missed it, missed _all_ of it, and now there’s no going back.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean mutters, and sits back down. “Okay. Okay. Yeah, so — so we’re both dumbasses. And we nearly destroyed our friendship over nothing. Fuckin’ A.”

At that, Cas does start to cry, and you know what? He deserves this. The night he didn’t lose his virginity at Charlie’s eighteenth birthday party can go fuck itself, because the disappointment he experienced then is nothing — absolutely _nothing —_ compared to this.

Cas joins him on the curb and they sit like that for a minute or two, the quiet only broken by Cas’s sniffles and the rustle of his sleeve as he catches his tears with it, the damp hem itching at his wrists.

Dean sniffs.

“So — so what now?”

Cas just shakes his head, shrugging, tears finally drying out.

“I don’t know.” When he’d stormed out of the bar, it had never occurred to him that they could make the situation _worse._

Of course, it is _them._

Dean sighs.

“Well — are we good, now?”

What?

Cas turns to him, thrown.

“I — no?”

“What? ‘No’? Why ‘no?’ Didn’t we — lay it all out there? I mean, yeah, okay, we figured out we had a pretty messed up situation going, but that was years ago. Can’t we just — let it go, now?”

By the time he finishes, Cas is pretty sure he’s going to start crying again. Has Dean listened to _anything_ he’s said?

“Dean, do you remember _why_ we’re fighting in the first place?”

“Yeah, because you got mad and ran out on me just because I was drunk and did something dumb.”

“Did something—“ Cas can’t even finish, because Dean thinks _all of that_ was Cas being angry because Dean can be a dick when he’s drunk. Which isn’t fucking _news._ “Dean, you _moron._ ”

“Gettin’ real tired of people callin’ me stupid,” Dean mutters.

“Well, get used to it!”

“What the hell, man?” Dean looks taken aback. “I’m getting whiplash, here.”

Irritation flares, only to fizzle into tiredness once again. Maybe he is being too hard on Dean. Dean’s proven, for _years_ , that this is just something he just doesn’t _get._

“You remember, a little over a month ago, when Pamela asked why I was still here?”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re a competitive son-of-a-bitch.” Cas was surprised when Dean bought that before, and he’s surprised once again.

“Perhaps, but that wasn’t why.”

“Okay, then, why?”

“Because it was like old times.” He pauses. “I honestly didn’t care, by then, whether I won or not. I was just — happy. We were living together again — I didn’t think we ever would — and we were getting along, for the most part, and most days I didn’t even wonder if you actually hated me and just didn’t want to admit it.”

Dean frowns.

“You thought that? Before?”

“Yes?” Cas knows better, now, knows that maybe he’s the one who pulled away first, that maybe Dean’s always just been reacting to that the only way he knew how; but for a long time, it felt like Dean got to know Cas, in his entirety, and found nothing in him to like. “Sometimes more seriously than others, but — I did.”

“I don’t. I never hated you, even when I was mad at you.” Dean clears his throat. “Even when I thought you kind of hated me.”

As if Cas could ever.

“I believe you.” He looks at Dean, tries to convey that truth with his eyes, because it sounds like Dean is hurt by this.

“Okay. Good. So — what’s the problem?” he asks. “You didn’t like that you liked living with me?”

“Actually — sort of?” Cas swallows, glancing to his feet, embarrassment creeping back in now that hysteria has settled. “I more than _liked_ living with you. I felt at home for the first time in years. And no matter what I did, at the end of six months, it would be over.”

Dean looks stunned.

“You should’ve said something. It’s not like we were seeing anybody — we could have stayed roommates. Hell, we still can. Just — bring all your stuff back, and you can have the other room, or — or I can take it, if you want the master, and we can unpack everything for good.”

He says it like it’s all so simple, and maybe it should be, but Dean is operating under the assumption that Cas, too, got over his feelings years ago.

He looks at Dean, and he wishes he could just say ‘yes,’ that things _could_ be that easy, but there’s a great, endless-feeling future to think of, still.

“I can’t do that, Dean.”

“Why not? And for that matter, why’d you leave, if you liked living together so much?” Dean presses. Guilt shadows his expression. “Listen, I know I rode you way too hard over the — the—” He swallows. “The thing, and yeah, maybe it’s taken me a while to cool down — but I’m sorry. You don’t have to worry that I’ll always be nagging you over it, and I know it — it wasn’t cool to treat you like that. So — yeah. Sorry.”

And it’s sweet of Dean to try and make that promise, though Cas knows that Dean will feel his feelings and then act on them, regardless of his better intentions, but he’s missing the point. Cas can’t handle the fear, every single time they fight, that this is _it_ for them, that Dean will leave again. He needs to accept the inevitable once and for all and move on, whatever that ends up meaning.

He shakes his head.

“No, Dean, it wasn’t about that. Or it was, because having you be angry at me is — is _nervewracking,_ because I’m just waiting for you tell me you’re done with me, for good, but — that’s why. As much as I like living with you, would live with you forever if I could, I’m — God, I’m tired of trying to hold onto something that isn’t even mine.”

And that — at the end of the day, that’s what it boils down to. Cas, in his own broken way, is desperately clinging to something he has no business wanting in the first place, and all it does is hurt them both.

He can’t do it anymore.

“Uh. Um. What — what do you mean?” Dean is staring at him, face white. “Something that’s not — that’s not yours? How do you . . .”

Cas simply looks back, resigned.

“You, Dean,” he says softly, and when the rest of the truth tries to follow, he just lets it go. “You’re not mine. But — I’m yours. I don’t think I ever won’t be. And it’s a shitty way to live.”

Dean says nothing, and Cas forgives him. It was a lot to put on him — it always has been.

“You know, I hate that you know me so well,” he admits, quiet and sad, and still a little bit afraid. “I think to myself, sometimes, what if I go my whole life, and nobody ever knows me like you do? What if I die someday, miles and — and _years_ away from you, but you’re still the person who knows me best?”

It’s kept him up some nights. That there will come a day when he won’t even know where Dean is, when Dean might not think of him at all, and Cas will still be faced with the loneliness that comes from being so close to someone they’re a part of you, a part of you that nobody else can ever really understand, and no longer having them with you.

Cas watches Dean watch him, watches the shine that comes over his eyes, and then — and then Dean starts to cry.

Cas stares, at a loss.

“Dean?”

“You — you’re wrong,” Dean tells him, voice thick. “Because I — I _am,_ Cas. Think I always have been.”

Cas doesn’t understand. Not why he’s crying or what he’s trying to say.

“You’re . . . what, Dean?”

Dean’s eyes close, fingers moving up to pinch the bridge of his nose between them.

“Look, I don’t — I don’t want you to ever — not be mine. Because I’m always gonna be yours.”

Cas lets the words sink in, lets years of hurt fuel a suspicious hunt for any other meaning, and when he realizes that there’s only one, delivered with the kind of blunt simplicity characteristic of Dean Winchester’s truth, all he can do for a moment is stare.

Dean is such a beautiful person, inside and out, and Cas has wanted him for so long he doesn’t remember what it’s like not to.

And he is telling Cas — with unmistakable conviction, with — with _faith —_ that he will always want him back.

Dean opens his eyes, gives Cas a helpless, frightened sort of look that only lends credibility to the unbelievable, and Cas knows it’s probably cruel to wait, but he lets himself look just a little longer, lets himself feel his feelings without regret, the knowledge that they are returned overwhelming in the most precious of ways.

And then he can’t wait any longer.

He stands, one goal in mind, and heads for the car.

“Cas?” Dean calls, questioning, and with blinding affection, Cas marvels at his idiocy. “Cas, where are you going?”

Affectionate or not, Cas can only be so patient. He stops, breathes in deeply, all kinds of nerves clashing within, and then turns around, marching up to Dean until barely a few inches remain.

There’s a moment when he gets distracted by the closeness, his whole body urging him to just _kiss_ Dean, because he thinks he’s allowed, now — but Meg’s voice echoes in his head, telling him not have sex in public bathrooms, and while that’s probably not going to stop him if it comes to that, he probably _should_ draw the line at a parking lot.

So he presses in close, lets his lips touch Dean’s ear in added promise to the words he leaves there, and then pulls back.

“. . . and while I am perfectly willing to have you do that in the men’s bathroom of the bar, if that’s my only choice,” sorry, Meg, “I would _much_ rather it happen in the privacy and comfort of the apartment.”

“Not the bedroom?” Dean counters, but there’s a note of _something_ in his voice, and it’s not the defiance he was probably intending.

Cas narrows his eyes.

“Alright. If you think you can make it that far.”

He doesn’t plan to let him.

Dean ends up tumbling him over the sofa back before the apartment door is even shut.

“A couch is just as good as a bed if you do it right,” Cas assures him, and kisses him before he can reconsider.

They absolutely _do_ do it right — in magnificent _excess_ of right — but that doesn’t change the fact that Cas lied.

He regrets nothing.

\- end -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Discussion of past overdose: In therapy, and in a flashback, more details are given about Cas’s overdose. While this overdose was accidental, Cas acknowledges it was a result of carelessness, largely driven by Dean’s abandonment. He wakes up alone in the hospital, and though Dean was his emergency contact, Dean never visits. Anna stays with Cas a month to take care of him, the implication being that she's worried about his mental health.
> 
> Dubiously consensual kissing: Dean staggers in drunk. When Cas makes a snide remark about this, Dean corners him against the wall and sniffs his neck, pointing out that Cas, too, has been drinking. Dean then starts kissing his neck, and when Cas says his name, startled, Dean begins kissing Cas. Although a part of Cas is enjoying it, he’s aware of everything wrong with the situation, and pushes Dean away. Dean demands to know why, pointing out that they’re not violating the rules of the bet, if they have sex with one another, and when Cas reaffirms his ‘no,’ wants to know why Cas appears to be singularly repulsed by Dean. Cas is horrified by the proceedings and leaves.
> 
> Discussions of how feelings factor into sex: It’s indicated that feelings may result in a different, potentially more positive sexual experience for both Dean and Cas; this is meant to apply specifically to the characters having the conversation. For people who enjoy sex, feelings may or may not be a factor in their enjoyment, and either way is normal. More importantly, one way is not superior to the other, and this story is not intended to glorify romantic sex in any way.
> 
>  **About the sequel** : The sequel is about twice as long, alternating POV, and contains a lot more (individual) therapy sessions and flashbacks. Upon finishing Issues, I realized that Dean and Cas's relationship had been incredibly broken for a long time, and that a lot of the things that broke it, as well as a lot of their individual issues, hadn't exactly been resolved and would probably come back around to bite them. The sequel explores a lot of those individual issues (focused on their childhoods and the relationship they developed then), and the enduring struggles their current relationship faces - though it ultimately leads them to a much stronger foundation and future, even if things completely break down, first. 
> 
> Still, if you think you'd be happier leaving this universe here, it's safe to assume that in the long run, they live happily ever after. ♡

**Author's Note:**

> *** SPOILERS ****
> 
> Recreational drug use: Cas smokes marijuana, and references are made to other, unspecified drugs, though in terms of his overdose, it is implied that he used heroin in the past; at some point, Dean finds one of his kits.
> 
> Past Drug Overdose: Shortly after graduating from college, Cas accidentally overdosed on what is implied to be heroin. References to hospitalization and recovery follow. He and Dean have a fight about this when Dean finds one of his old kits.
> 
> Dean/other and Cas/other: Past relationships, both sexual and romantic, are mentioned. Specifically, Dean/Lisa, Dean/Cassie, Dean/Aaron, and Cas/Meg, though none of Cas's past relationships have been romantic in nature. At one point in the story, in the midst of a fight, Dean and Cas each end up flirting with strangers at a bar and intend to sleep with them, but end up confronting one another and leaving the bar.
> 
> Past Child Abuse and Past Child Neglect: This tag is for Dean and Cas's respective parents.  
> Cas's parents and home life are described as cold; the neglect there is more implied than outright stated. However, in one scene, Cas's mother slaps his sister and uses abusive language, and in another, she throws a pot at Anna's head and kicks her out of the house permanently. In the second scene, Cas is also subject to abusive language.  
> Dean's father leaves him and Sam with Bobby and Ellen when Dean is ten, however, periodically he returns. References to his alcoholism and Dean's possible inheriting of it are made. In one flashback, John returns, drunk, and gets angry at Dean. Abusive language is used, and it is suggested that it may have escalated if Bobby hadn't come and put a stop to it. It is stated at the end of the scene that this was significant in Cas's developing a fear of anger.
> 
> References to Alcoholism: In the present, John has passed away, but flashbacks feature drunk John. Additionally, there are references to Dean having in some ways inherited that alcoholism; Cas experiences some anxiety over Dean's drinking habits, and there is a scene in which Dean comes home wasted and behaves poorly.
> 
> If you have any questions, please don't hesitate to ask.
> 
> I am questionableraccoon on tumblr, if it's more comfortable to ask there, or even if you just want to talk fic or say hi :)


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